Scars
by Space-facade
Summary: In which Arthur is both Crown Prince and a Prat, Merlin is both a Terrible Servant and sort of Wonderful, and a curling iron proves it means Serious Business. Merlin/Arthur. Here be SLASH.
1. Seven Years

**And so begins something of an epic. This was written for abbyleaf101. Clicking the review button will actually...well...there may be danger of explosion that is all I will say XD **

When Arthur Pendragon was seven years old, he failed to walk the plank.

It was the height of summer, the sky was blue, the sun was burning, and his nursemaid couldn't quite cope with the heat. Arthur was dispatched to the courtyard to play, accompanied by his elder cousin and the strict instruction not to get up to any mischief.

Left to his own devices, Arthur would probably have been fine. He would have done what any other normal seven year old would; chased a chicken or two, tried to snaffle fruit from a market stall, or thrown a few stones at an unsuspecting horse. Unfortunately for him, his cousin Morgana had had other ideas.

Morgana had been nine years old that summer, but had already possessed the cunning and manipulative ability of a girl three times her age. She and Arthur had loitered in the hot courtyard, both feeling too lacklustre to even consider anything energetic. Arthur had been moody; he'd had a headache, and was slouched against the wall, kicking the occasional stone. Next to him, Morgana stood straight and tall, as if emphasising how much better behaved she was, and fluttered a fan across her face, chasing a non-existent breeze.

They'd remained in the courtyard for about an hour, getting increasingly hotter, and increasingly grumpier. It wasn't until Arthur aimed a particularly vicious kick at a stone, missed and hit the wall, that Morgana even deigned to speak to him. She interrupted the stream of profanities that no well bred little boy should even be aware of, and proposed a trip down to the river. Arthur was so surprised at her offering to take him anywhere, that he stopped cursing and hopping around and simply stared.

His cousin, it had appeared, did not like being stared at, because she folded her fan up, stabbed him in the eye, and demanded to know whether he was coming to the river, or whether she was leaving him behind. Arthur had, as he was later to use in his defence, raised the issue of not being allowed out of the castle unaccompanied, but it had become apparent that even at the tender age of nine Morgana knew exactly how to play him, because she looked him in the eye, gave rather a nasty smile and said,

'You chicken, Arthur Pendragon?'

And, well, after that, watching her flounce off across the courtyard, Arthur didn't really have any choice but to follow, did he?

The walk down to the river was uneventful in the extreme. It was quite tough going at times, but the woods were blissfully cool, and Arthur did have the pleasure of seeing Morgana's superior façade slip when she ripped the bottom of her dress on a particularly unfortunately placed branch. It was only when they reached the river that the trouble started.

That summer had been long and hot, perhaps even qualifying as a heat wave, and rain had been in scarce supply. As a result, the normally dangerous, fast-flowing river had slowed to a pathetic trickle that crept over the rocky river bed with a tinkling sound guaranteed to play havoc with those of weak bladder. The water was only about an inch deep, three inches at most, and Arthur hadn't been able to help but wonder exactly what it was that Morgana wanted to do. He soon found out.

Picking their way downstream, it hadn't been long before they had come across a fallen tree, wedged across the river at a spot where the water had, once upon time, obviously been very deep. Morgana had turned to Arthur and grinned in a most unladylike fashion.

'Time to walk the plank, Arthur Pendragon. Get to the other side of the river, and I'll do your prep for a month.'

Aside from wishing she'd stop using his full name in such a snide tone, Arthur's first response had been shock. And then disdain. How hard can it be, he'd thought, to walk across a tree? Sending what he hoped was a sneer in Morgana's direction he'd reached out and, using the great upturned roots as leverage, hauled himself onto the main trunk. He took a few steps out, still holding onto the roots with one hand, and then stopped. There was an unforeseen problem. Arthur had always had a slight wariness of heights. And balancing on a log, with nothing to hold onto, two metres above the ground had done a decent enough job of triggering his vertigo.

So he did the only sensible thing in the circumstances. He froze.

Arthur had remained stock still, unable to let go of the root and move out into space, for about five minutes. It was at this stage, that Morgana began to laugh.

'You **are **chicken!'

'I am **not!**' Arthur had called back desperately, somehow hoping she would just ignore the visual evidence and take his word for it. Unfortunately, Morgana had instead chosen to drop all of her ladylike posturing, and start skipping in a circle chanting 'Arthur is a chicken, Arthur is a chicken!'

Even at the tender age of seven, there had been **nothing **Arthur had detested more than being called a coward. The anger that rushed up inside him had unfrozen his limbs, and without thinking about it he had taken several swift steps out across the trunk, until he was almost halfway across the river. Morgana had gone quiet.

Arthur managed fine, the anger carrying him on, until he was about a foot from the opposite bank. It was at this point he made his biggest mistake. He looked down.

There was a terrifying moment, in which everything moved six times slower and with much more clarity than usual, and then the ground was suddenly much much closer than Arthur remembered. There was a thump and everything went black.

The exact details of the rescue mission were never made clear to Arthur. All he could remember was waking up in his chambers to a thumping headache and the news his nursemaid had been sacked. His father refused to renege on that decision, despite Arthur's protestation, and when the gash in his head had finally healed and he was allowed to return to his routine, there was someone new in her place.

His father had obviously not heard the real story of what had happened at the river, and Arthur knew enough of the code of conduct to keep his mouth shut about Morgana's part in the proceedings. He knew she felt guilty though, because when he received his first batch of prep since the accident, an essay on 'Myths and Legends: Their Place in our Society', a piece of parchment sporting that title had appeared on his bed later that day. This continued for a month, upon which Morgana obviously considered her debt paid, because Arthur had to start doing his own school work again.

The accident at the river had had no lasting effect on Arthur, merely leaving him with a slightly bitter taste in his mouth over the nursemaid, the notion that Morgana was not to be trusted, and a tiny jagged scar on his right temple.


	2. Ten Years

**Thank you and buckets of cookies to poemwriter98 for the wonderful review! **

**In which Arthur learns the true meaning of 'we have to suffer to be beautiful'. **

When Arthur Pendragon was ten years old, he was accidentally branded by a curling iron.

It was New Years Eve, and a large ball was being held at Camelot in celebration. Arthur had suffered through an hour of being fussed over; having his breeches and shirt straightened, his hair brushed, his boots shined etc, and then been released and told in no uncertain terms to stay inside, out of trouble, and most importantly, **clean**. With a couple of hours to go before the party commenced, Arthur had found himself unexpectedly free, and utterly bored.

So he followed the pattern that had become almost instinctive over the past few years, and went to find Morgana. His eleven year old self had strode imperiously down the hallways, and barged into Morgana's sleeping quarters completely unannounced.

Morgana had been sitting in a chair at her dressing table, idly running a brush through her long black hair, which had been an impressive sight even at that age. She'd spotted Arthur in the mirror, and raised one superior eyebrow, disappointingly unruffled.

'What do you want?'

Arthur had shrugged and uttered the mantra that exasperates so many parents today.

'Bored.'

'Well go away, I'm getting ready.'

'How can you **possibly **need three **hours **to get ready?'

Arthur had hoped his tone had dripped disdain and sarcasm, but judging by Morgana's expression, it had come out more petulant and whiny.

'Because. Now leave me in peace.'

Contrary to Morgana's instruction, Arthur had wandered over to stand by her chair. He'd run his fingers over a couple of the strange looking powders, and had his hand smacked in the process, before turning his attention to the cupboard on his left, atop which was lying a strange stick of metal with a wooden handle.

Reaching out, he'd lifted the thing by the handle, and been surprised to find the stick pleasantly warm.

'What is this?'

Morgana rolled her eyes.

'Curling iron. Don't touch the metal part, it's just been in the fire and it'll be hot.'

'How hot?'

Morgana had twined a strand of crisp-looking hair around her finger, and shot the curling iron a look of dislike.

'Hot enough to singe hair.'

'What's the point of having curls, if you burn your hair to a crisp in the process?'

The look Morgana sent him would have frozen hell.

'It isn't **supposed **to singe hair, you twat. I just didn't let it cool enough.'

'Oh.'

Arthur had no wish to burn a hole in himself, so he turned, with the honest intention of replacing the iron on the cupboard. Sadly, he failed to factor Morgana's rug into the scenario, and with a shriek that was in no way manly, and a flail of arms, he collapsed to the floor.

He would have been completely unhurt (physically, anyway, pride was another matter) had it not been for the scorching metal stick in his hand. He had dropped the curling iron as he fell, and, by some horrible misfortune, managed to end up **seated atop it**. Clearly the Gods of Fate were feeling mischievous.

According to Morgana's later recounting of events, he had shot back into the air accompanied by the smell of singed flesh and the girliest shriek she'd ever heard.

Once again, Arthur's memory of the events after the burning were slightly hazy, but he could recall with uncomfortable clarity his father's intense fury when he was informed that his son couldn't attend the feast, because he was now unable to sit down, or walk without wincing.

But, after spending a day or so moving around with **extreme **care, all the experience left Arthur with was a feeling of humiliation at having branded **himself **with a curling iron, the vague notion that you did indeed have to suffer to be beautiful, and a decent sized scar on his left buttock, the story of which he was destined to lie about when girls spotted it in bed.


	3. Fifteen Years

**In which Arthur flirts with decapitation. **

When Arthur Pendragon was fifteen, he entered his first sword fight.

Camelot had had a record harvest, and his father had decided the perfect way to celebrate this was to hold a tournament. Some of the best knights in the kingdom were entered, and the event had promised to be one to remember. In the days leading up to the tournament, the castle had been in a frantic haze of organisation and excitement.

Arthur had secretly been just as excited as everyone else, but he was fast learning that, as the soon-to-be Crown Prince of Camelot, he had to show dignity and calm at all times. He was getting quite good at it as well; it had been months and months since Morgana had managed to rile him into a temper, and she was better equipped than anyone else to do so.

However Arthur's detached façade, as good as it was, had stood absolutely no chance at all when Uther had summoned him to his royal quarters and announced that Arthur was to be entered in the tournament. There had been no mirror present at the time, but Arthur was sure that if there had been, the reflection that would have greeted him would not have been the boyishly handsome face he was used to, but one of a man who has just been told that King Uther wishes to marry him.

He had been so completely and utterly stunned that his father, his **father**, would even consider this a vaguely good idea that he hadn't been able to protest. Looking back, perhaps that was rather the effect that Uther had been aiming for, as his father had wasted no time in ushering his sputtering, gasping son out of the chambers to begin 'preparation'.

The day of the tournament had dawned bright and clear, with 'perfect conditions' for fighting, as Arthur had been informed by a manservant (who had regretted his words of encouragement when Arthur's boot had flown past his ear accompanied by the order to 'get out, get out, **get out!**').

The morning had passed rather in a blur, as Arthur was passed from hand to hand; to the trainer (for tips and a pep talk); to his father (for threats and a pep talk); to the armoury (for weapons and a pep talk) and to the kitchens (just for food). As the time had passed Arthur had become increasingly nervous and increasingly twitchy, neither of which were traits known for being particularly prominent in a good knight, and by the time he finally walked out into the fighting arena, he was almost royal jelly. He was so nervous in fact, that when the crowd erupted, roaring their support for the future King, Arthur **actually flinched** and half-ducked before he caught himself.

A glance at his father had shown Uther closing his eyes, probably in despair, although Morgana was later to swear that the angle of the sun where they had been seated was such that the light bounced off Arthur's armour in a most distracting way.

And as Arthur waited, trying desperately to stop his sword hand shaking, a voice had boomed out, calling for quiet and then announcing, 'ROUND ONE. ARTHUR PENDRAGON, CAMELOT, VS. GREGOR ORIHIN, TREMAIN.'

A gong had sounded, the other knight had moved in, and everything had suddenly become completely and terrifyingly **real**. 'Gregor' had begun circling Arthur like a hawk, getting gradually closer, his sword raised, and Arthur had attempted to emulate him.

Everything had been going fairly well, Arthur was circling right back, in some kind of crazy ritual, and he'd managed to fight off each attack Gregor had launched. Unfortunately, as he took another step sideways, **somehow**, and to this day he had no idea how, he lost his footing, and **tripped**.

This of course spelt disaster, and the only other thing Arthur could remember from his first fight was the sight of Gregor's sword swishing down through the air, headed straight for him.

Arthur was later told, by an incensed Uther, that the other knight hadn't even meant to hurt him. Gregor apparently, had merely been aiming for the grand gesture of spearing the ground by Arthur's head with his sword, but had slightly misjudged and instead driven the metal blade about an inch into Arthur's right shoulder.

Arthur had been slightly relieved by this, his last impression of Gregor had been that the other knight intended to decapitate him, but according to Uther this just made his defeat even more humiliating. Now, Uther didn't have a son that had fallen **over his own feet** during a fight but then at least been heroically and tragically injured, he just had a clumsy, accident-prone, unlucky, cowardly **oaf**. Or so Arthur had been blisteringly informed. Morgana had later informed him that Uther's rage had only manifested itself once it had been confirmed that Arthur wasn't going to die, but in the circumstances, Arthur had found precious little comfort in this.

The wound in his shoulder had taken two months to heal properly, but the mental effects of the event had been much longer lasting. In fact, to this day, Arthur could still remember with an uncomfortable level of clarity the sheer humiliation his fifteen year old self had felt.

The disastrous sword fight had left him with the burning desire to **never **weaken himself by showing fear again, the determined promise that he would **never **lose another fight, and a vivid two inch scar branding his right shoulder.


	4. Fifteen Years, Eleven Months

**In which Arthur gets his taste for hunting. **

When Arthur Pendragon was fifteen years and eleven months old, he led his first hunt.

He had, of course, been hunting for years already, but only in the sense that he'd crashed about in the woods for a couple of hours, trailing a manservant and trying to spear rabbits. But things had been very quiet in Camelot for a couple of days, and this had led Uther to decide that it was high time his son passed through the manly ritual of killing something larger than a rodent.

Arthur had been dispatched to the woods with a manservant, a group of his fellow knights and a crossbow, and told in no uncertain terms not to return until he had something impressive to show for it.

The company had prowled the woods for several hours before finally coming across a small herd of deer. They were crouched in the bushes surrounding a small clearing, and right in the centre, drinking from the stream that ran nearby, grazed around fourteen of the creatures.

Arthur and his men had been conferring in quick hand gestures; working out which deer they wanted to take out, who was going to shoot and so on so forth, when the herd started to shift. Arthur had at first thought that they had gotten wind of the men plotting their demise in the bushes, but then two small females near the greenery at the opposite end of the clearing had parted, one pawing the ground nervously.

And then, as they'd watched, a magnificent stag had ambled out of the bushes, parting the herd like the Red Sea, and come to a standstill right in the middle of the clearing. And, incidentally, right in the range of Arthur's crossbow. Excited looks and more extravagant hand gestures had passed between the men and after a bit of nudging and several bug-eyed 'go **on!**' expressions, Arthur had found himself raising the crossbow and centring it on the stag.

As he had taken aim, the sun had come out, and the previously gloomy clearing had been washed with sunlight. The stag had stretched his neck out, as if basking in the newly found warmth, and for some reason Arthur noticed how the light made his coat shine; the previous plain brown becoming flecked with strands of gold and red that had not previously been visible. He had hesitated slightly, suddenly unwilling to kill such a beautiful creature, and in that second, the stag raised his head and looked directly at Arthur, almost as though he **saw **him, although well-concealed as he was Arthur knew that to be impossible.

The stag's eyes had remained fixed on Arthur. They were expressionless, a deep unfathomable brown, but to Arthur, in this strange moment of disjointed reality, it seemed to him that the stag was asking him a question – almost as he if knew what Arthur's plan had been and wanted to know why was he to die in the name of sport? Arthur's hands appeared to have developed a mind of their own, because without really considering his actions he began to lower the crossbow.

He had almost dropped the bow down completely when he heard the infuriated whisper from behind him.

'What are you **doing**? For fuck's sake, **shoot it**.'

Arthur had recognised the voice of Sir Meldor, one of his father's right hand men, and had known in that instant he had a choice between facing his father's wrath and shooting the damn deer. For him, it wasn't even a choice.

Before he had been able to think about what he was doing, Arthur raised the crossbow and leased the arrow.

It hadn't been until later on, sitting in his bed chamber and recalling his father's delight at the size and magnificence of the latest catch ('**14 points on his antlers!'**), that Arthur had noticed the small cut on his left hand. It wasn't deep, just a couple of centimetres long, and etched into the skin of his left palm, just above the wrist. It had stung when Arthur had rubbed a finger across it, but as it was shallow he hadn't felt the need to bother with medical treatment.

As it was, perhaps he should have, because the cut had become severely infected. It had taken a fortnight to stop oozing pus, and had glowed an angry red colour for at least a week after that.

It had healed eventually, but the memory of Arthur's first hunt had not left him. He had been left with a determination to gain the respect of the knights, and perhaps his father again, the tiniest notion, easily quashed, that there was something very wrong with killing for fun, and a small white scar on his left palm.


	5. Seventeen Years

**In which Arthur becomes a warrior.**

When Arthur Pendragon was seventeen years old, he killed his first man.

There had been a small conflict with the nearby kingdom of Mercia, and the knights of Camelot had ridden into battle. It had not been Arthur's first taste of real armed conflict, but so far all the disputes they had settled had been peasant uprisings, or against bandits. Mercia had been the first battle fought against knights of their own skill.

Arthur was no stranger to war, and he had felt prepared. He had trained daily with the Knights and had known - modesty aside - that he was now one of the best fighters in Camelot. The cold, confident front that he had started to adopt after his ill-fated first tournament, and thickened after his first hunt, was now perfected, and riding into a world of death and steel, Arthur Pendragon had felt completely unafraid.

How naïve he had been. How could he not have realised how different it was to fight a real battle, against men like yourself, and face death, even as you delivered it to others? Yet, he had not realised, and when, after a fierce duel, he had managed to pin a Mercian knight to the floor and disarm him, Arthur had felt little hesitation in driving the point of sword home, right through the man's chest, piercing his heart.

It wasn't until he had withdrawn his sword that he fully realised the enormity of what he had done. The other knight had lost his helmet in the battle, and as Arthur watched, frozen, the blood stained the ground beneath his body and the knight's eyes turned to his. In that moment, Arthur stopped being Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince, Knight and Future King of Camelot and the other man ceased to be The Enemy. Instead they became just two men. Two people who had hopes, and fears and dreams; who had people they loved and memories they treasured; two people who had rode into battle not knowing if they'd live to see their families again. And as Arthur had watched the light slowly leave the other man's eyes, he had realised that because of him, one of them wouldn't.

Because of him, another life had been wasted.

Camelot had won that battle. Arthur had had no choice but to rejoin the fray. It had been a choice between that and losing his own life. He had fought mechanically, his technique perfect, yet wherever he could he had found himself knocking men unconscious or taking them alive as prisoners. It was because of this that Arthur had sustained the injury. A man whom he had thought unconscious had turned out instead to be a fantastic actor, and had Arthur's reflexes not been excellent he would have received a sword through the stomach. Instead, he had gotten away with a slicing cut from just below his shoulder to the base of his spine.

The gash had taken almost a month to heal properly, and during this time Uther had been almost ridiculously over-protective of Arthur, beaming with fatherly pride at the part his son had played in the victory. It was the first taste of this that Arthur had ever had, and he had realised he was truly desperate to keep his father's regard and to keep the affection that had been missing from his childhood.

Even so, the battle at Mercia had left a sour taste in Arthur's mouth. His bruises healed, but he was left with a feeling of shame that he had been trained for the battlefield all his life, but had somehow been unable to deliver, the notion that he was inferior to the other knights who hadn't seemed to experience any guilt at all, and the horrible memory of the Mercian's eyes that floated to the surface every time he glimpsed the puckered red scar on his back.


	6. Eighteen Years

**In which Arthur becomes ARTHUR, Crown Prince of Camelot. **

When Arthur Pendragon was eighteen years old, he led his first battle.

The memory of that day was one that Arthur never dwelled on. Ever. If by chance it happened to float to the forefront of his mind, he made no hesitation in swiftly suppressing it.

It had been the hardest, most frightening thing he had ever done, although he hoped that he had hid that well. Riding into battle, it had not only been the lives of the enemy that he was suddenly responsible for but the lives of **his **men as well. Every murder committed by his sword, and every man he lost was permanently etched in his memory, and if he thought about them, he suffered the threat of drowning under a tidal wave of guilt.

When the battle was won, and yet more blood had been shed, Arthur and his knights had ridden back to Camelot. That night, hidden from prying eyes, he'd cried, letting out just a little bit of that emotion. When that had failed to make him feel better, he'd taken a knife and scored just a tiny line across the expanse of skin at his hip. And for a few blissful moments, the pain had wiped the slate of his mind clean.

What Arthur hadn't been prepared for when he woke up the next morning, was the horrible feeling of total utter guilt and shame he felt at letting himself be so weak. He was disgusted with himself.

And so from that moment on, he stopped being just Arthur, and became Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot. He enjoyed every hunt, every moment wielding the sword, every battle. He commanded the respect of his Knights, and he did his best to completely forget that first battle.

The only reminder left was a tiny phantom line on his left hip.


	7. Twenty Years, One Month, Two Weeks

**In which Arthur meets his destiny. **

When Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot, was twenty years, one month and two weeks old he met Merlin Emrys; the boy who was to become his manservant.

Arthur had been larking around in the courtyard, bullying some nobody of a servant, trying to alleviate the boredom he often felt, itching constantly under his skin.

The courtyard was filled with raucous laughter, and Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot had been filled with a sense of importance and power.

At first he barely heard the voice that said, 'Come on now, that's enough', so unheard of it was for people to contradict him.

He turned.

'**What **did you say?'

The boy that had confronted him, for he could hardly be described as a man, was tall, skinny, almost ethereally pale, with cheekbones that could cut glass and hair that, if Arthur had been a poetic sort of person, he might have described as raven black. As it was he settled for 'dark'.

The conversation that followed that first exchange of words was unlike anything Arthur had experienced since Morgana had deemed herself too righteous to bother with him anymore.

This boy hadn't known Arthur was the Crown Prince the first time he called him a prat, and the second time, he plain hadn't cared. In fact, all he'd done was tack the word 'sire' onto the end of his words, the intonation he used making the word sound like an equivalent to 'manure'.

This troubled Arthur, although he could not fathom why, and as he sent the dark-haired boy to the stocks, he found himself rubbing a hand unconsciously over the invisible scar at his hip.


	8. Twenty Years, 1 Month, Two Weeks, 1 Day

**In which Arthur and his destiny become stuck with one another. **

When Arthur Pendragon was twenty years, one month, two weeks and one day old, he decided that he may in fact be destined to be the unluckiest Crown Prince in Albion's history.

To start with, he'd had to suffer through the humiliation of almost being killed by a beautiful woman that had been specifically **invited **to court. To sing, of all things. Except it had turned out that she was just as good with a dagger as she was at holding a tune, and only extreme luck and an enormous pair of ears with a boy attached had stopped Camelot from becoming heir-less.

As if **that **wasn't enough, his father had, in a moment of sheer idiocy (not that Arthur would ever say that to his face) decided that as a reward this boy would be given a place in the royal household. As Arthur's manservant no less.

Arthur hadn't been able to decide which was worse; the very idea of having this strange, dark-haired boy following three steps behind him offering service, or the fact that the boy, **Merlin **(and wasn't that just a bloody stupid name anyway?), had seemed equally, if not more, disgusted at the idea than Arthur was.

Because really, Arthur was allowed to hate the idea of this boy being his manservant (he had a perfectly competent servant already, thank you very much), but surely to this Merlin, the offer should be an honour?

However, if the look of semi-disgust, and the half-protest (which Arthur registered, even if Uther –luckily- did not) were any indicator, then Merlin would rather spend another evening in the stocks than become Arthur's servant even for one **minute**.

This reasoning behind this wasn't something Arthur particularly wanted to contemplate. Why should he care what this country boy thought of him? And so he rubbed away the imaginary ache at his hip, and tried not to dwell too hard; not on the fact that he was about to be saddled with an incompetent, useless servant, nor on the fact that he owed said incompetent, useless servant his life.


	9. Twenty Years, One Month, Three Weeks

**In which Arthur's destiny is quite, quite useless. **

When Arthur Pendragon was twenty years, one month, and three weeks old, he finally realised the value of a good servant.

He had tried having a word with his father, suggesting not-so-subtlely that Gaius needed Merlin as an assistant, and when that had not worked, had even gone so far as to point out that Merlin was completely incompetent. Uther had, however, merely brushed this off, telling Arthur that no servant could possibly be that terrible.

Uther, however, was wrong. Arthur had no idea how on earth Merlin had even managed to survive nineteen years of life (he had discovered to his shock that the boy was only a few months younger than himself). Merlin was, beyond any doubt, the **worst **servant Arthur had ever had.

He dropped things. He forgot things. He couldn't clean swords. He tore Arthur's favourite shirt. He dented Arthur's favourite armour. He constantly fell over. He never made the bed. He put far too much starch in the laundry. He always forgot to bring Arthur meals. He was never in earshot when Arthur needed him. The list went on and on. In fact, if he had been so inclined, Arthur could probably have written a book.

But definitely, easily, without any **shadow **of a doubt, the item at the top of the list had to be Merlin's insolence.

Ever since he was a small boy, with the exception of Morgana, everyone had always deferred to, and respected Arthur - servants, in particular. He was used to lowered eyes, submissive tones, and impeccable manners.

Merlin however, was having none of that. He was insolent, disrespectful, and on occasion downright rude. Instead of demurely lowered eyes, Arthur's comments and orders were met head on by the brightest blue irises he'd ever seen. Merlin was taller than him, something which irked Arthur an unreasonable amount, and not only did his new servant have no qualms about looking Arthur straight in the eye, he also had the ability to look **down **on him.

If that wasn't enough, Arthur could count the number of times Merlin had remembered to address him as 'Sire' on one hand. And that was without the use of his thumb.

It was infuriating – both because it was highly disrespectful behaviour on Merlin's behalf, and also because Arthur found it much harder to maintain his façade as Arthur Crown Prince of Camelot, when his idiot of a manservant insisted on treating him as just Arthur the Prat.

The only small comfort was that judging by Merlin's persistent incompetence (**surely **no-one could be that useless unless it was deliberate?) and his reluctance to spend more than ten minutes in Arthur's company; Arthur was fairly certain the feeling of dislike was mutual.

And if it was maybe, just occasionally, slightly refreshing to be treated as just Arthur the Prat, Arthur was determined to remain merrily oblivious.


	10. Twenty Years, Two Months, Two Days

**In which we meet Arthur the Prat, and Merlin the Idiot :)**

When Arthur was twenty years, two months, and two days old, he regressed to the age of seven.

Merlin had been Arthur's manservant for a little over a fortnight, and had proven himself to be useless at pretty much all tasks.

But when a day clear of meetings and counsels dawned particularly bright and sunny, Arthur had made his first mistake. He decided to go hunting.

However, when he was summoned to see his father an hour later, Uther informed him that his knights had been dispatched for extra patrol duty, because Uther feared they were 'becoming idle'. This display of blatant mistrust had riled Arthur considerably, and despite now lacking anyone to go hunting **with**, he had been more determined than ever to get out of Camelot for a few hours. This was his second mistake.

Arthur's **third **and largest mistake had been seeing Merlin in the corner of his room polishing a sword and deciding that a really brilliant idea would be to take his manservant along with him.

Merlin, to give him his due, had protested and stuttered, under the (correct) assumption that he really 'didn't think hunting was for him'. Arthur, with all the arrogance of one who is not thinking straight, had unfortunately bulldozed right over his protests.

And that had been how, three hours later, Arthur had found himself, frustrated, hot, and prey-less in the middle of the forest, with his idiot of a manservant crashing along behind him with all the subtlety of a drunken dragon.

Merlin had by now scared off a boar, two deer and countless rabbits, and Arthur was fairly certain that every creature within a mile's radius must now know of their presence. He had pretty much given up on catching anything, and was instead sitting slumped against a tree in a clearing, waiting impatiently for his manservant to catch him up.

After ten minutes or so, Merlin's crashing became louder, and eventually he burst through the bushes on the other side of the clearing, jerkin torn, hair ruffled, and a red scratch running down one side of his cheek.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Merlin raised a hand to rub self-consciously at his cheek and said,

'Had a bit of a disagreement with some brambles.'

Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes. He had previously been thinking that Merlin's sudden clumsiness around prey may have actually been entirely **deliberate**, but looking at his manservant now, he couldn't entirely be sure.

'Well what now then?'

Arthur gritted his teeth and forcibly stopped himself from reminding Merlin of his official title.

'Well, **Merlin**, I think you've probably succeeded in **ruining **any chance we…**I.**..had of catching anything today, so I suggest we fill our water bottles from the river and then head back.'

Merlin shuffled his feet and looked sheepish.

'Sorry.'

Arthur rolled his eyes.

'Yeah, yeah.'

He set off through the bushes, heading towards the sound of running water, and after about five minutes, pushed his way through some trees and came upon a wide, lazily-flowing river.

Crouching, Arthur tried both to forget about how hot he was, and to ignore how inviting the water looked, and concentrated on re-filling his water bottle. Merlin had not yet reached the river bank, but Arthur could hear him fumbling along somewhere behind.

Once the water bottle was full, Arthur carefully capped it, and then gave into the temptation to splash some water onto his face.

It was at this point that Merlin erupted through the trees behind him. Arthur was facing the other way, and so didn't see exactly what happened, but all he heard was, 'those **damn **low hanging brancheeesss----arrrrrggghhh!'

And then, **then**, a dead-weight crashed straight into Arthur's back, and he fell head first into the river.

The water, as it turned out, was not actually that deep - when Arthur stood up, it only came to his waist. However, it was cold enough that when Arthur resurfaced, slicking his hair back from his eyes, and trying to ignore the way his cold shirt clung to his skin, he was already gnashing his teeth in fury.

It was quite difficult to maintain the princely façade when he was certain he had pond weed dripping from his hair, but Arthur gave it a decent effort, and he fixed Merlin, who was sprawled in a dazed looking heap on the bank, with a steely glare.

Merlin sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head, and further mussing his hair in the process, and said,

'Uh, sorry sire…I fell over a tree root.'

Arthur had glared some more.

'Merlin,' he'd said, 'you will come here, help me out of this river, and then you will hold still and let me beat your idiotic head into a pancake. That is a royal order.'

Merlin had winced for a second, but then heaved himself to his feet, staggering somewhat, but not looking anywhere near alarmed as Arthur thought he should, considering physical violence had just been threatened.

He'd approached the bank, still wobbling somewhat, and extended a hand down to Arthur. Arthur had reached up to take it, and as he'd done so, he'd had every good intention of merely using Merlin as a dead weight by which to lever himself out of the water. However, as their fingers brushed, Arthur felt a strange twinge of something, and all in a rush, the Arthur that he had kept well hidden for so long had risen to the surface and overwhelmed him.

And instead of pulling himself out onto the bank, he instead used the outstretched hand to pull Merlin into the river.

There was a yell, a flail of gangly arms, and an almighty splash, and then Merlin emerged from the water, dark hair dripping like a wet dog, blue eyes glowing, and wearing the most bemused and indignant expression that Arthur had ever seen.

Arthur himself had, inexplicably, still not sure why the hell he'd even done that, grinned.

'I cannot believe you didn't see that coming.'

Merlin was looking at him, endearingly (?) bewildered, and after a second's silence, he grinned back, a wide grin that almost split his face in two, and said,

'I cannot believe you actually have a sense of humour.'

And well, Crown Prince of Camelot or not, Arthur couldn't let him get away with that. It was out of the question. And so he did the only thing comprehensible. He seized Merlin's ears, and shoved his manservant under the water.

And so commenced the battle.

Almost an hour later, Arthur finally called a real truce, and hauled himself out of the river onto the bank. He sprawled onto his back and waited for Merlin to join him.

Arthur had been somewhat shocked at just how good Merlin was at water wars. Arthur had superior strength, superior skill, superior training, and yet somehow, Merlin had managed to match him trick for trick perfectly. If Arthur hadn't known the notion was ridiculous, he would almost have said Merlin had a little something else on his side.

Arthur closed his eyes, and felt, rather than heard, Merlin collapse beside him, panting somewhat. Arthur knew he should really move now, and put an end to this hour of madness, but there was a strange warm feeling in the pit of his stomach and his mouth hurt from smiling so much, so instead of moving he settled for lazily watching the blotches of colour drift across his closed eyelids.

He wasn't sure exactly what had just happened, he hadn't messed around and so completely let his guard drop for as long as he could remember, yet Merlin didn't seem to be judging the Crown Prince for behaving like a five year old. If anything he seemed to prefer Arthur this way.

This was a strange, and slightly uncomfortable notion, and so Arthur decided now was the time to make a move to return to Camelot.

'Merlin?' he said, 'Merlin! We need to be getting back. Saddle the horses, and fetch the water bottles.'

There was a distinct lack of reply.

Rolling onto his side, Arthur propped himself up onto his elbows, preparing to berate his manservant. The sight that met his eyes erased that plan before the words had even started to form.

Merlin was sprawled on his back, arms above his head, sleeping like a cat in the sun. His head was turned to the side, revealing a strip of pale skin above his ridiculous neckerchief, and a single drop of water was slowly running its way down the angle of his jaw. The startling blue eyes, one of the first things Arthur had noticed about the other boy, were hidden by a fringe of dark eyelashes that made an oddly perfect curve against Merlin's ludicrous cheekbones.

Merlin's hair was still ruffled, and he wore a small smile as he slept, and Arthur wondered abstractly whether he was dreaming.

The drop of water ran a few more centimetres down Merlin's jaw, now travelling across the sensitive skin where his ear met his neck, and Arthur watched, strangely unable to look away, until it soaked into the material of the scarf, turning a small section of the drying material a darker red.

Feeling a strange sense of peace wash over him, Arthur collapsed down onto his back again, and closed his eyes.

He wouldn't be missed for another hour or so.


	11. Twenty Years, 2 Months, 3 Weeks, 6 Days

**In which beauty products means serious business. **

When Arthur was twenty years, two months, three weeks and six days old, he finally told another human being about the scar from the curling iron.

He wasn't sure what had possessed him to confess, to his idiot manservant of all people, but Merlin had asked and it hadn't even occurred to Arthur to lie.

They'd been in Arthur's chambers one morning, and Arthur had been lounging in bed, watching both the sunrise and Merlin staggering around the room simultaneously. He'd thrown a wooden bowl at Merlin when the man dropped Arthur's sword with a god awful clang, and Merlin had shot him a look of pure innocence (which didn't even come close to being convincing).

Truth be told, over the last week or so, this had become something of a routine between them. Arthur would lie in bed, watching Merlin stagger around and generally make a mess of things, and then have the pleasure of throwing that handily placed bowl at his manservant's head.

Each evening, when Arthur returned to his chambers, the bowl would be back on his bedside table, and Arthur supposed it had plain never occurred to Merlin to move it to a location less convenient for throwing.

On this particular morning, Arthur had been reflecting rather uncomfortably on the fact that he had never before lounged around in bed in front of another human being. He had never allowed his servants in before he was fully dressed, when he saw his father it was through a court summons, and if he had anyone sharing his bed, he generally kicked them out either the night before, or the immediate morning after. But for some reason, it had not actually occurred to him not to allow Merlin in. Probably because the boy had such a low opinion of Arthur anyway it didn't really matter exactly what he did or didn't see Arthur doing.

Plus, in a way, it was almost…nice, having some company, even if it **was** only Merlin.

Anyway, that morning Arthur had been in a reasonably good mood, and had refrained thus far from throwing any too-pointed comments in Merlin's direction. Perhaps it had been this that had finally prompted Merlin to ask about the scar. After all, he'd been dressing Arthur for **weeks**, and it was unlikely that Merlin was simply unobservant enough not to have noticed.

Well…

Arthur had had his breeches on, but they were still unlaced at the front, and as a consequence riding rather low on his hips. Merlin had been tying the laces at the back of Arthur's favourite red shirt, and as he finished and reached down to smooth out the material at the bottom, Arthur had felt a feather-light brush of fingers against his skin.

He jumped forward in shock, because Merlin's fingers were **cold**, and snapped at his manservant.

'**Merlin**, your hands are **freezing**!'

Arthur hadn't been able to see Merlin's face at this point, but he'd somehow known that Merlin was rolling his eyes.

'Sorry, **Sire**. I was just wondering…' he trailed off.

'Wondering **what**, Merlin?'

'What that scar is on your…'

It had taken Arthur a few seconds to work out exactly what Merlin was referring to, but when he realised, he had flushed. This was not a sensation he was accustomed to, and as Arthur felt the back of his neck go hot, he had reached a hand up to rub the affected area. He thought he heard Merlin snort at this point, but he couldn't be sure.

'Oh,' he'd said, trying to sound nonchalant,' That's just a scar.'

'Yes,' Merlin had said, 'Obviously. How did you get it?'

Arthur had sent a death glare in his direction, which had prompted Merlin to swiftly add,

'If you don't mind me asking…' and then, 'sire…'

Arthur had shrugged, as casually as he could manage.

'If you **must** know, I sat on Morgana's curling iron when I was ten.'

It was the first time Arthur had actually admitted that out loud to anyone, probably because the only other two people that knew (his father and Morgana) had both treated him with amused and/or sneering contempt.

With hindsight, Arthur could admit that if Merlin had outright laughed at him, then the conversation would not have ended well.

As it was, Merlin had been suspiciously silent. Arthur had turned around to give his manservant the once over and found Merlin biting his lip to hold back a smile. As Arthur glared at him, this turned into a small, rapidly escaping smile, which became a wide grin, which became a full-belly laugh.

Oddly though, instead of being irritated, Arthur had felt a bizarre twinge of warmth in the pit of his stomach, and as he had watched Merlin laugh himself stupid – quite literally: his manservant had ended up leaning back against the wall with tears running down his face – Arthur had found himself fighting a smile.

He had been triumphing, and managing to keep a straight face, until Merlin recovered, wiped his eyes, gave one more weak chuckle and said,

'Well, sire, you should beware of women's beauty products. They mean serious business.'

And then Arthur, damnit, couldn't quite stop a smile escaping.


	12. Twenty Years, Three Months, One Week

**I would like to thank the lovely reviewers; 009Sevgi, goodythreeshoes, unicorndiva, Poemwriter98, irishartemis, and SarcasmMyAntidrug. **

**In which the infamous hat makes a reappearance and there is much alarming talk of marriage. **

By the time Arthur was twenty years, three months and one week old, he and Merlin had settled into something of a routine. It was not always a friendly routine – it involved receiving terrible service (on Arthur's part), regular visits to the stocks (on Merlin's part) and copious amounts of insults and bickering (from both of them) – but it was a routine none the less.

However, one of the main bones of contention between them was, and remained, the official servants uniform. Particularly the hat.

Arthur had managed to force Merlin into it once, admittedly under the false pretence that **all **the servants had to wear it at **least **twice a month, but once it had dawned on Merlin that he had never seen any otherservant wearing the garments he had flat out refused to wear them again, under any circumstances.

Which in Arthur's eyes was a shame. There was nothing like Merlin looking like a complete and utter prat to raise his spirits, and the giant feathered hat had brightened up several extraordinarily dull royal banquets.

Arthur had tried yelling (Merlin remained stubbornly unafraid of him), he'd tried ordering (somehow that felt like kicking a puppy) and he'd tried coercing (Merlin remained adamant he actually preferred the stocks). But he'd had no success.

He could have course, just have forced Merlin into it. After all, he was Arthur, Crown Prince of Camelot, and Merlin was a lowly servant, but somehow that just didn't sit right.

And so after a couple of weeks of trying, Arthur had, somewhat sadly, packed the flowing red robes and monstrous feathered hat away into the back of his wardrobe, and let the issue drop.

Two weeks later, Uther announced that the King of Forest Sauvage and his court were coming for a visit. In Arthur's eyes there were three things wrong with this.

Firstly, King Ector was one of the least inspiring royals Arthur had ever met. He was a small, weedy man, barely reaching five foot five, his hair was always somewhat parted by grease, and his nose seemed to be permanently running.

Secondly, his main interest was in tax rebates, something which Arthur found entirely tedious, and he had some very vivid memories of sitting through banquets, smile frozen in place while a nasally voice droned on and on in his ear, punctuated by the occasional slurping sniff.

But thirdly, and most importantly of all, Ector had a daughter. Alana was a petite red-head with excellent manners, a polite interest in everything Arthur had to say and a father who was of the opinion that a marriage to a Pendragon would be highly beneficial.

Throughout previous visits Arthur had not been too worried about this, as Uther had stated that he was in no hurry to get Arthur married off.

In fact, his actual words had been, 'the longer we wait, the more we gain'. Arthur might perhaps have been insulted by this, but he had no interest at all in getting married, and had just been relieved that it hadn't been imminent on the agenda.

However, this visit was different. When Uther had summoned Arthur to his chambers to inform him of the visit, he had uttered the phrase, 'Be polite to the daughter. She might make a respectable match for you in the future.'

Arthur had raised an eyebrow at his father, and queried this.

'I didn't realise we were particularly after anything the Forest Sauvage had to offer?'

Uther had glared at him over the rim of a report.

'The Forest Sauvage shares a border with Mercia. The situation at our own border is getting tense, and in the unfortunate incidence there should be a war, the support of King Ector would be invaluable.'

Arthur had felt a large lump settle in the pit of his stomach. He'd always known that he would marry and produce an heir someday, and he'd also known that the likelihood was the marriage would be arranged, yet somehow he knew he did not want this.

'So you're going to marry me off to Alana to buy her father's support?'

The look Uther gave him could have fried sausages at fifty paces.

'If it was to help Camelot, I wasn't aware I'd even need to ask.'

Those words were all it had taken to have Arthur feeling traitorous, weak, and slightly pathetic. He bowed stiffly, and nodded.

'Of course, father.'

Uther's gaze hadn't warmed any, but he did give Arthur a slight nod before looking pointedly at the door.

Arthur let himself out.

As he strode back to his rooms, Arthur considered the very real possibility that this latest royal visit might end in his engagement.

The alliance would be highly beneficial to Camelot, and Alana was a perfectly reasonable girl, yet there was still a large lump of stone in Arthur's stomach.

He entered his rooms fast, banging the door behind him, and clearly somewhat alarming Merlin, who Arthur now realised was situated in the corner of the room. His manservant was sitting on a low stool, surrounded by four pairs of Arthur's boots and a tin of polish. He held a filthy rag in one hand and there was a black smudge of polish high on his left cheekbone, which was strangely endearing.

Because of this, Arthur refrained from criticising the lack of work Merlin had done (the breakfast dishes were still out, there were clothes on the floor, and his armour was unpolished in a corner), and settled for collapsing face first onto the unmade bed.

'Uh, Arthur?'

Arthur groaned into a pillow.

'What, **Merlin**?' This came out somewhat muffled, and probably sounded more like 'Wug Mur-n?' but Arthur thought the general meaning was clear.

'Sir Gareth came by with a message for you earlier. He said there's been some trouble in one of the outlying villages, something to do with errors in the crop rotations and infertile fields. They can't meet the grain quota apparently.'

Arthur didn't much care about grain quotas right then, so he rolled onto his back and merely grunted in response.

Merlin went back to polishing in silence for several seconds, before saying,

'Is everything alright, sire?'

Arthur had been prepared to bite Merlin's head off for speaking again, and maybe to send him to the stocks for the lack of work he'd done that morning, but his manservant sounded genuinely concerned, and Arthur found unplanned words coming out of his mouth.

'My father wants to marry me off.'

There was a very loud pause, before, sounding completely stunned, Merlin repeated,

'**Marry you off**?'

'Yes, **Merlin**,' Arthur snapped, 'there's been some border dispute with Mercia and the kingdom of Forest Sauvage also shares a border with them. Their military assistance would be invaluable to Camelot. King Ector is coming to visit tomorrow, and apparently would desire nothing more than for his daughter to marry a Pendragon.'

'So…you're meant to marry for the good of Camelot?'

As Merlin said this, Arthur felt an inexplicable swell of anger and shame. Shame at himself for not really being prepared to marry for Camelot, and anger at Merlin for obviously thinking he should be.

'I suppose you think it's my princely duty or something?' he snapped.

'Princely **duty**?' Arthur, are you **insane**?' At this, Arthur propped himself up on his elbows to look at Merlin. His manservant was flushed slightly red, and his eyes were oddly bright. He looked indignant…almost angry.

'I can't believe your father would do that! He's going to marry his only son off to some horrible daughter just to gain the military support of some snivelling other kingdom?'

Merlin sounded outraged on Arthur's behalf, and suddenly the rock in his stomach felt lighter. Arthur shrugged a shoulder slightly.

'It's how things are done Merlin.'

Merlin's mouth was stubbornly set.

'Well, I think it's awful. You shouldn't have to marry for military gain.'

Arthur snorted.

'Well, it's not like I'm going to be able to marry for **love**.'

Merlin looked bemused.

'Why not?'

Arthur sighed.

'Because, Merlin, I'm the Crown Prince of Camelot. For me, marriage is like a...' Arthur paused, searching for the right phrase, '…like a negotiation. Both sides have to get something out of the agreement. Something other than the marriage and an heir, I mean.'

Merlin looked aghast.

'And you're actually going along with this?'

'Do I have a choice?'

Merlin looked directly at him, blue eyes burning.

'There's always a choice, Arthur.'

Arthur laughed derisively.

'Don't be stupid Merlin, there's just a path to follow.'

There was a very pregnant pause, before Merlin asked quietly,

'Is it what you want, sire?'

Arthur looked away.

'It doesn't matter what I want.'

Most people would have taken the hint from Arthur's flat voice and dropped the matter, but Merlin being Merlin, kept pressing.

'Will you be happy?'

Arthur sighed at his naivety.

'I'm going to be King, Merlin you prat. It doesn't matter if I'm happy.'

Merlin's mouth tightened at this, and the lines around his mouth became more pronounced.

'Well, it matters to **me**.'

Arthur shot him a sharp glance. Merlin's cheeks were redder than ever, but he held Arthur's gaze unflinchingly. Arthur's stomach felt strangely warm.

Fighting the urge to look away, he smiled slightly and just said,

'You've got boot polish on your cheek, Merlin.'

By six o'clock the next day, the royal party of the Forest Sauvage had arrived. Arthur had greeted them in the usual fashion, shaking Sir Ector's hand, kissing Alana's, and engaging in polite small talk for the better part of the afternoon.

Alana was much the same as he remembered her, albeit perhaps slightly gigglier, and more prone to blushing. On the few occasions he had spoken to her, he had almost felt the weight of his father's gaze, and when, midway through the afternoon, he caught Uther's eye, his father gave an almost imperceptible smile.

Finally ensconced safely in his chambers, Arthur felt slightly queasy. He had a feeling it was caused simply by the thought of ending up related to Ector.

Throwing his favourite red cloak over the chest at the end of the bed, Arthur slumped wearily into the chair by the fire. Tipping his head back, he watched a small black spider scurry across the uppermost part of the wall and vanish into a crack. Arthur wondered vaguely if spiders ever got married.

The slightly ludicrous image of a spider in a white veil popped into Arthur's mind, and he resisted the urge to beat himself around the head with a nearby iron poker.

Thankfully at this moment, the door crashed open, and Merlin staggered through it. At least, Arthur presumed it was Merlin – the upper half of whoever had entered was completely shielded by a large mountain of clothing – but Merlin was the only one who ever dared to enter without knocking.

The half man, half clothing mountain wobbled over to the bed and there was a momentary cascade of shirts and boots before Merlin's torso and head were revealed; cheeks slightly flushed and black hair ruffled. He heaved a great sigh and stretched his arms out.

Arthur shook his head in exasperation.

'Merlin, why don't you just get one of the other servants to help you carry laundry up here? You know as the Prince's manservant, they're all technically below your station and you **can **give them orders.'

Merlin shrugged.

'Everyone's running around like headless chickens getting ready for the feast tonight. Anyway, I'm not all that good at giving orders.'

'Nor at receiving them, I've noticed.' Arthur said wryly.

Merlin grinned, before noticing Arthur's raised eyebrow and attempting to look mildly repentant.

'What are you doing up here anyway?' Arthur asked, 'I thought I ordered you to clean the stables at some point today, and when I walked by them earlier the stench suggested they remain very much **uncleaned**.'

'Oh yeah, I'm getting to that,' Merlin waved an unconcerned hand, 'I've brought up your clothes for the feast. It's starting in an hour, and you need to change.'

With a sigh, Arthur heaved himself to his feet.

'Right then, let's get this over with.'

Merlin threw a clean pair of breeches to him, before grabbing an armful of clothes and making his way to the wardrobe and starting to fold.

Arthur caught the breeches and then stood and stared at the back of Merlin's head. Clearly hearing the silence behind him, Merlin turned around.

'Problem, sire?'

'Oh not at all, Merlin. Only I was under the impression that I actually hired you for something.'

Merlin rolled his eyes so heavily Arthur was surprised they didn't disappear into the back of his head.

'You're twenty years old, sire. I'm sure you can lace your own breeches.'

Arthur glared at him.

'It's not a matter of whether I **can**, Merlin. It's a matter of whether I should **have **to.'

'Oh come on, Arthur. You're going to be engaged. I'm pretty sure the Lady Alana would want a husband who could dress himself.'

Because Merlin's back was turned, Arthur allowed himself a wince.

'That might be a thought actually, Merlin. Maybe I should just be as repulsive as possible during the feast tonight.'

Merlin made a tutting sound that reminded Arthur strongly of Gaius.

'I'm not sure how much effort that would actually require, sire.'

Arthur threw a nearby wooden goblet at his manservant's head. It connected with a resounding clunk, and Merlin yelped.

However, he still made no move to come and help Arthur dress, and so feeling mutinous Arthur began unlacing his own breeches.

Five minutes later, Arthur was changed, and Merlin had finished folding and sorting. Arthur was sat back in his chair and was determinedly not looking at his manservant.

Merlin moved to stand right in front of him, holding his favourite red shirt, and said,

'I could feel you sulking from across the room.'

Arthur glowered at him.

'I am **not sulking**.'

'Oh no, no, of course not.'

Arthur stood up and snatched the shirt. He yanked his current blue one over his head and dropped it deliberately on the floor. Pulling the red one over his head, he waved a hand dismissively.

'Right, well, I'm changed. You can go and tend to the stables now.'

Merlin heaved a sigh, stepping closer and batting Arthur's hands away from the laces of his shirt.

'If it wasn't for the fact that it's 'just how things are done', I might almost think you were dreading this whole engagement thing, sire.'

If Arthur had had a firm hold of his Crown Prince of Camelot façade, he might have dignified that with a response. But his façade had been slipping somewhat around Merlin just recently, so he kept quiet.

Merlin didn't push it, for once, but merely kept lacing.

Once he was done, he took a step back, and looked at Arthur for a moment. Then he reached up, and almost absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair away from Arthur's eyes, brushing the scar at Arthur's temple as he did so. Had he not had years of training, Arthur would have flinched away, but as it was he managed to remain stock still.

'Where did you get it?' Merlin asked, voice quiet.

Arthur moved his own hand up, feeling the slightly raised edge of scar tissue.

'When I was seven,' he said, wondering as he did so why he was even telling Merlin this, 'I fell off a tree trunk into a river.'

Merlin winced.

'Ouch,' he said, 'that must have hurt.'

Arthur shrugged.

'Injured my pride more than anything,' he said, and then at Merlin's questioning glance, 'it was a dare from Morgana. She made me do her prep for a week after, and wouldn't let me live it down for at least a year.'

Merlin smiled.

'That sounds like Morgana.'

There was a second's silence before Merlin spoke again.

'I can picture you as a little boy,' he said, grinning, 'I bet you had everyone wrapped round your little finger, didn't you? I can just see you striding around the castle, ordering people about, and constantly quarrelling with Morgana.'

Arthur stared at Merlin, wondering how it was that his manservant, who'd known him for a little under six months, could see that person inside him, when he himself had forgotten what it was like to be that little boy a very long time ago.

Maybe he found himself acting so strangely around Merlin because Merlin was the only one who could see someone other than just a Crown Prince inside Arthur.

Merlin held Arthur's eyes for a moment longer, before smiling awkwardly and clapping him on the shoulder.

'Time for the feast, sire. Go and be your usual arrogant, pig-headed self and I'm sure it'll put Alana right off.'

Heading off towards what could be his engagement party, Arthur still somehow found himself laughing.

The beginning of the feast was everything Arthur had dreaded and more. The food was of its usual high standard, the musicians were excellent, and Alana looked very nice. Arthur sat on Uther's right hand side and listened to his father converse with Ector. Alana was seated to Arthur's right, and mostly sat quietly, picking delicately at her food, and occasionally asking him a polite question about Camelot.

To add insult to injury, there was neither hide nor hair to be seen of Merlin, and Athur's cup was nearly empty.

Upon hearing Ector make what must be at least the hundredth comment about how much Lady Alana adored it here at Camelot, Arthur drained the dregs of wine in one huge desperate gulp, and looked around for a servant to refill it.

But Merlin must have slipped in behind Arthur earlier without him noticing, because as Arthur banged the cup down on the table he became aware of two things. Firstly, the form of his manservant was standing just to the right of his chair, refilling his cup, and secondly, there was a large crimson feather tickling his left ear.

Arthur turned his head to look at Merlin, and for a split second his mind blanked out. Merlin was dressed in a horribly large, horribly red, horribly flowing set of servant's dress robes, and atop his head sat the huge feather monstrosity of a hat; it's feathers waving merrily as he turned his head back and forth.

After a brief shocked silence, Arthur started to laugh, which at Alana's puzzled look, he hurriedly turned into a cough.

Looking at Merlin's ludicrous grin, Arthur felt a smile spread across his own face. Alana smiled slightly uncertainly, clearly under the impression that the expression was aimed at her, and Arthur hurried to correct this misassumption by introducing Merlin.

He waved a hand behind him.

'Lady Alana, my manservant, Merlin.'

Alana turned, took in the sight that was Merlin, and looked, quite frankly, faintly alarmed. Merlin beamed like a madmen, and bowed to her.

'Lady Alana.'

As he straightened up, Alana had to rear her head violently back to avoid getting a feather up the nose.

Arthur produced another laughing snort, before hearing a pointed cough from his left.

He turned to find Uther glaring daggers at him, and Merlin, clearly sensing the same, retreated to his original position, behind Arthur's seat.

Ector was regarding the entire scene with an air of sneery superiority.

'Uther, I hadn't realised it was practice in Camelot to introduce one's servants to the royal guests.'

Arthur could hear his father's teeth grinding, as Uther replied,

'It's not. Merlin is something of a…special case. He saved Arthur's life back when he first arrived in Camelot, and a position in the royal household was his reward. We're still…training him.'

Uther finished this sentence with a conspiratorial wink to Ector, and both men laughed.

Arthur could hear Merlin spluttering indignantly behind him.

After that, the meal progressed much as it had before. The exception was that every time Arthur felt his spirits sinking through the floor, Merlin would immediately reappear at his side. The sight of the costume, together with wine that accompanied his manservant's appearance, would bolster Arthur's mood somewhat, and he was able to maintain at least some level of polite conversation.

The real turning point of the feast came midway through the fifth course, when the conversation turned to politics. Arthur could almost see his father's ears perk up, like a fox after a hound, as he sensed a potential opening approaching.

Arthur watched with a sick sense of doom as Uther, almost casually, mentioned the problems they were having at the Mercian border, and enquired as to how King Ector was faring in that regard himself.

Arthur was just picturing the marriage ceremony, and the seven children that Alana would surely want to follow, when his mental picture show was brought to a screeching halt by Ector's next words.

'You're having trouble with Mercia, Uther? How strange, I've always found them to be most agreeable myself. Why just last month we signed an alliance with them!'

And with those three sentences, Arthur knew he was saved. He could practically feel the radiance of Merlin's grin behind him, and knew that his manservant had picked up on what had been said as well. He resisted the urge to grin broadly and tried to construct a neutral expression.

Next to him his father was doing the same, and Uther's gritted teeth appeared to be holding in a quite considerable rage as he ground out,

'An alliance with Mercia? I wonder why my advisers did not **inform me of that**.'

If Arthur was one of the court advisors, he'd be getting the hell out of Camelot that night.

The last two hours of the feast passed in something of a relieved blur, and at around midnight Arthur returned to his room, humming as he walked.

Merlin was waiting for him, back in his normal attire, and he helped Arthur undress properly this time, a little secret smile gracing his lips.

Merlin did not acknowledge Arthur's narrow escape from matrimony, and Arthur did not mention Merlin's wearing of the servant's dress robes.

But as Merlin blew out the last candle, leaving only the fire going in the corner of the room, Arthur felt compelled to speak.

'Merlin…' he said, and his manservant turned, the flames etching strange shadows onto his face and making his skin glow.

Arthur didn't get any further than the one word, but the corner of Merlin's mouth quirked up anyway. He nodded, and Arthur knew that he understood.


	13. Twenty Years, Three Months, Three Weeks

**Thank you very much to Xanthiae, goodythreeshoes, Cynth19, WinterStorrm, Catindahat, CrayonsPink and Mr Guppy for the reviews; I really appreciate them. This chapter is for the lovely Xanthiae; to help her fight the Killer Cold of Doom.**

**In which a bird/snake/Satan's minion comes out to play and there is a Moonlit Conversation. **

When Arthur was twenty years, three months and three weeks old, his life was saved by a servant. Again. And not just any old servant. By Merlin; his completely incompetent, ludicrously clumsy and utterly moronic manservant.

Arthur still maintained it had been pure luck.

Which was odd really, as Merlin was, as a general rule, a magnet for **bad** luck. Since his arrival in Camelot, unfortunate incidents had been springing up all over the place. The singing sorceress, the snakes in the shield, and the magical plague to name but a few.

Still, on this occasion Arthur wasn't going to complain, given that it had been Merlin's stroke of luck that had saved his neck.

Everything had started when the court had received a message from one of the outlying villages, relaying a desperate tale of destruction and woe at the hands of some monstrous magical creature.

Arthur, despite being slightly dubious (Who ever had heard of a creature with six snake heads and the body of a giant bird, for heaven's sake? Even Gaius had been stumped), had gathered a dozen of his best knights, plus Merlin, and ridden off to do battle.

Upon arriving in the small village, he had been slightly shocked. Whatever had been going on here, the villagers certainly hadn't been exaggerating the damage. Fields that had once been filled with crops were black and smoking, many of the neat stone houses were in ruins, and there was a general atmosphere of panic.

Without wasting any time, Arthur had summoned the head of the village council, who turned out to be a creaking old man of roughly ninety. He was however, clearly highly respected, and so Arthur asked for his account of the story.

The man recounted the events very slowly, in an extremely quavery voice, and about ten minutes later, Arthur felt he had gleaned the bare bones of the tale.

Those bare bones being that the creature was big, the creature was mean, and the creature seemed to have a talent for chaos, destruction, and not dying.

Arthur did not feel that it would be to their advantage to try to track the creature; although judging from the old man's description it was big enough that finding it wouldn't be a problem; and so he, his men and Merlin set up camp in a charred field by the river.

Merlin was charged with feeding and watering the horses, which was actually a lot harder than it sounded, and how his manservant managed to find un-burnt grass within a half mile radius Arthur would never know. The boy obviously had a magic touch.

Arthur had had some monster-slaying jobs like this where the monster in question hadn't turned up for days on end, and then when Arthur and his men had given up and set off back to Camelot, a report of another attack would be waiting to greet them at the castle gates.

No such thing happened this time.

Within three hours of the camp being set up, a roaring could be heard from the direction of the village, along with a myriad of screams.

Barking out commands, Arthur fell into the front of the formation of knights, and as a group they approached the source of the commotion, shields held high.

When they first laid eyes upon the monster, Arthur had to stop and suck in a breath. The villagers had been right. It was **big**. And more than that, it looked like it had a soul composed of burning hatred, utter scorn and a tiny splash of pure evil. The main portion of its body was feathered, an ugly dark green colour, with the occasional streak of black, and both its legs and wings ended in cruel, hooked talons that Arthur imagined could quite easily gut a man.

The six heads swung viciously in every direction, taking snaps at anything within reach, foamy saliva dripping from dagger-like fangs.

Arthur snapped a command, and felt, rather than saw, his knights spread out around him in a semi-circle, two to each head.

As the appendage directly in front of Arthur honed in for its first attack, he had the random idea that if they could develop a training machine like this then he'd have the best co-ordinated knights in the entire country.

That, however, was his last coherent thought for some time.

An unknown amount of time later – it felt to Arthur like years, but was probably in likelihood about six or seven minutes – Arthur was the last man standing.

In addition to being malicious and vicious, the creature was also deadly fast and had excellent aim. Arthur hadn't actually seen it decapitate any of his knights yet, but there had been several very near misses.

Of the six original heads, only two were still functioning. Arthur had taken out one, Galahad had dealt with two (in a move that was more luck than skill – in aiming a wild swing at the head he was fighting, he'd somewhat overshot and taken the next head over by something of a surprise) and the youngest and newest knight Gawain had taken out the fourth.

Now however, Galahad and Gawain were dragging an unconscious Ulric away from the scene; Richard, Agravaine, Grummore, Pelinore and Kay were out stone cold and being tended to by four terrified village women; Edwin was trying in vain to tug his sword free of one of the decapitated heads (**how **he'd even managed that Arthur had no idea) and both Gareth and Alven had been knocked flying by sweeps of the enormous feathered wings, and were lying dazed some feet away.

The situation, Arthur thought, as he ducked a particularly well aimed snap, was not good.

It was true he was an excellent knight (honesty over modesty), but he considered himself at a huge disadvantage, being that he only had one head.

Ducking and diving, Arthur took a couple of swings at both heads, but they easily evaded him, and he could feel himself being steadily backed up towards the wall of a nearby hut. He twisted himself around, and began to back in another direction, trying desperately to avoid getting pinned against the wall.

The snake/bird/Satan's minion took a couple of lazy steps forward, and resumed eyeing Arthur up as if he would be a tasty, albeit metal-coated snack. Arthur gulped.

After another minute or so of tentative fencing, the snake/bird/Satan's minion obviously decided it was bored. It hadn't had a good afternoon, having been decapitated four times, and now it was being bothered by this small tin man waving a very sharp stick.

It roared in fury, arched one neck out, and swung its head in at a wide angle, aiming directly for Arthur's throat.

Arthur raised his sword to intercept the blow, and there was a horrible squelching sound, as the blade of the sword sunk through the flesh of the creature's neck.

The blow hadn't had enough strength behind it to fully decapitate the creature, and now Arthur's sword was wedged between what he presumed were two vertebrae partway down the neck.

The monster was screaming in pain, a terrible high-pitched sound of agony, and then, with one enormous yank, it wrenched its head away from Arthur, driving the sword deeper as it did so, and the fifth head and neck came to hang limply against its body.

There was both an upside and a downside to this. The upside was that there was now only one head left in action. The downside was that Arthur was now weapon-less, his sword gently swinging to and fro in the vicinity of the creature's feathery kneecaps.

Cursing, Arthur backed away, frantically scanning the area for anything he could use as a weapon. Clearly taking advantage of his vulnerable position, the creature advanced steadily, with what Arthur could only presume to be a malevolent smile on its reptilian face.

As the final head reared up and then came plunging down towards him, Arthur's main thought was 'I'm going to die. Very possibly now.'

He tensed all his muscles, preparing to duck down and roll out of the way, and just as he leapt sideways, rolling over and over, and ending up huddled against the wheels of a cart some feet away, he heard a dull smack and a rumble of confusion.

He peered out from behind the wheel of the cart. The monster was still standing, but was swaying somewhat. The remaining head was wavering from side to side, a trickle of blood running from a large gash in the left temple.

Arthur's eyes traced a path downwards, to where a large jagged-edged rock was lying, the blood stark against its grey surface. The creature groaned, once, twice, and then ever so slowly, almost in slow motion, it staggered sideways and keeled over in a heap.

As it did so, it revealed a small clump of bushes that had previously been blocked from Arthur's view by the creature's wing. And as Arthur watched, Merlin, his **manservant **Merlin, emerged from that clump of bushes, and looked at the rock lying on the ground with an immensely satisfied grin.

Oh no. No, no. Just **no**. Arthur refused to believe Merlin had been responsible for throwing that rock. How had his manservant even lifted it? Let alone **thrown **it? It was impossible.

Merlin was making his way over toward Arthur now, picking gingerly around the various patches of blood stained grass. As he came to halt in front of Arthur, Arthur could see that his mouth was a bit pinched, and his face was drained of colour. His hair was ruffled, and there was a scratch all down one of his cheeks from hiding in the bushes.

Some of his knights were injured a lot worse than that, but looking at that scratch gave Arthur a strangely hollow feeling in his stomach.

He stepped close, getting right in Merlin's face, and resisting the urge to shove him, hissed,

'Christ, **Merlin**, what the **hell **do you think you're doing?'

Merlin took a step backwards, the grin on his face faltering and turning into irritation.

'I **thought **I was saving your skin, **sire**. Unless you were planning to beat off that creature with your bare fists.'

Arthur glared at him.

'I had it **covered**. I told you to **stay back**. For heaven's sake Merlin, you are a servant. You are in no way trained to fight a creature like that. You could have been **killed**.'

As Arthur uttered those words, the fury that had been building in Merlin's face seemed to suddenly drain away, as though someone had pulled the plug.

'I'm fine, Arthur,' he said, stepping closer, 'and I'd rather have my head torn off than that of the future King of Camelot. Your father would never forgive me.'

Arthur resisted the urge to deck him.

'Well, **Merlin**, if you get your own head torn off pulling another crazy stunt when you had express orders to stay **out of it**, then **I **will never forgive **you**, and you will be in the stocks for a **month**.'

Instead of looking suitably chastised, Merlin merely grinned, some of the colour ebbing back into his face.

'You're welcome, sire.'

Four hours later, Arthur had admitted defeat and stopped to make camp. It had been possible before, with all knights fully functioning and daylight on their side, to make the journey from Camelot in a day. Now however, night had fallen, the horses were tired and somewhat skittish, and Arthur could sense the fatigue of all his men, not that any of them would ever say anything.

By some miracle, all the dozen knights that had set off from Camelot were still standing. The eight that had been knocked unconscious had come round easily enough, although Arthur had Edwin, Galahad and Gawain keeping an eye on their comrades as they rode. The only two injuries that had occurred had been a deep gash in Agravaine's side and a very nasty break to Gareth's leg.

Both of these men were on stretchers, Agravaine supported by Merlin and Arthur's horses, and Gareth between Edwin and Galahad's.

These men were Arthur's first priority once the camp was set up, and he made sure they were closest to the fire and received the best food and plenty of water. Gareth's leg had been set, and Agravaine's side stitched by the women in the village, but Arthur was still erring on the side of caution.

Once the horses had been groomed and watered (Merlin's responsibility again) and Galahad had produced a completely appalling meal of salted beef and baked potatoes, they settled in for the night.

At first there was the usual muttering and stirring, as the men tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground, but after half an hour or so these were replaced by the occasional sleepy murmur and the loud, consistent snores of Pellinore; who was thankfully on the farthest side of the camp from Arthur.

Arthur lay on his back, staring up at the darkened forest canopy. Above his heads, branches were twisted into gnarled shapes, made bizarre and strangely threatening by the way the shadows fell. In places, the foliage thinned somewhat, and it was possibly to see through to the dark sky above.

Twenty minutes of tossing and turning later, Arthur was still staring at this, by now uninspiring, view - sleep successfully evading him. He was exhausted; his muscles felt raw with fatigue, and every bone in his body ached, but each time he closed his eyes, they would re-open mere seconds later.

The whine of the midges, and the constant snort and rasp of Pellinore were not helping matters.

Huffing in exasperation, Arthur abandoned his futile attempts at slumber, and rolled to his feet, careful to avoid kicking Alven and Kay who lay on either side of him.

Making his way a little outside camp, he slid up behind Richard, who was on guard. Tapping the older man on the shoulder, Arthur felt a twinge of school-boyish satisfaction when Richard jumped with a startled gasp.

Upon seeing it was Arthur, Richard recovered his breath, and asked,

'Everything alright, my Lord?'

Arthur nodded.

'Fine, Richard. Can't sleep that's all. I'll take over here for a bit, you go and get some rest.'

Richard clearly wasn't going to suffer the same problem as him, because when Arthur uttered these words the other knight's eyes lit up, and he nodded, shuffling off wearily in the direction of camp.

Arthur folded himself down, sitting up against the rough bark of a nearby oak tree, and cast his eyes over the clearing in front of him.

He'd been sitting there for roughly ten minutes, when he heard a twig crack somewhere behind.

The noise had come from the direction of camp and so wasn't cause for too much alarm, but Arthur stood up anyway, hand going automatically to the hilt of his sword.

There was another crack, some loud rustling and the sound of something heavy thudding to the ground, and all of a sudden Arthur was prepared to bet his title that it was Merlin making his way through the undergrowth.

Sure enough, thirty seconds later, the lanky figure of his manservant came crawling out of the bushes, cursing softly, but fluently, under his breath.

'Language, Merlin.' Arthur remarked lazily.

Merlin glowered at him.

'Yeah, because **your **language would fit right in a nunnery,' he muttered under his breath.

Arthur clearly wasn't supposed to have heard that remark, but Merlin had never been all that subtle.

'Clean language isn't the only thing about me that wouldn't fit in in a nunnery, Merlin.'

Merlin grinned at that, the corners of his mouth quirking up, and dimpling his cheeks slightly.

Arthur coughed, and looked away.

'What do you want anyway? You should be sleeping.'

Merlin shrugged.

'So should you. I saw your bed was empty, so I thought I'd check everything was okay.'

'Everything's fine. Just couldn't sleep.'

Merlin shifted from foot to foot, before sliding down next to Arthur, leaning against a tree a little way across from him.

Having him there made Arthur feel extremely twitchy. Despite the fact he was the Crown Prince, and could technically do anything he wanted, he felt more than a little bit guilty for how he had treated Merlin earlier, not that the other man seemed to be bearing any grudges. Guilt was not an emotion Arthur was accustomed to, and he did not like the way it twisted at his stomach.

A few seconds passed in silence, before Merlin spoke again.

'How many scars do you have, sire?'

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. Merlin flushed slightly.

'I saw another one today, when we were down at the river. The one on your shoulder?'

Arthur ignored the strange feeling he got inside when he worked out that Merlin must have been staring at him shirtless when they went down to wash earlier, and debated whether or not he really wanted to tell that particular story.

'What about it?' he snapped, rather abruptly.

Merlin remained unperturbed.

'I was wondering how you got it. Looks nasty.'

'God Merlin, were you always this nosey?'

His manservant grinned, the moonlight causing his skin to glow ghostly white, as though he were wearing copious amounts of Morgana's powder.

'Only with people I find interesting.'

Arthur didn't really want to know if that was a compliment or not. He sensed it might not be.

'I got the scar in my first fight.'

'How old were you?'

'Fifteen.'

Even in the dark, Arthur could sense Merlin's eyebrows rising incredulously.

'Uther made you fight when you were **fifteen**?'

'All knights have their first fights then, Merlin.'

'Christ.' Merlin sounded disbelieving. 'I was still chasing the girl next door, and playing pranks with Will when I was fifteen.'

Arthur laughed.

'Did you win the fight?'

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.

'No, Merlin, obviously not. Otherwise I wouldn't still bear the reminder of the other man's sword on my shoulder.'

'You lost a fight?' The way Merlin said this sounded slightly incredulous, as though he couldn't quite believe this of Arthur. Arthur found a smile.

'Yes. I was nervous, I screwed up,' he paused. 'Actually,' he said, somehow trusting Merlin not to laugh, 'I fell over my own feet.'

'You fell over your own feet? What, and the other knight still plunged his sword through your shoulder? Who **does **that?'

Arthur laughed again, slightly bitterly.

'Better than his sword across my throat.'

'True.'

There were a few seconds silence, and this time Arthur found himself breaking it; once again telling Merlin more than he meant to, without quite knowing why.

'After that fight, I swore I wouldn't lose another one. You can imagine my father's reaction. I promised myself I wouldn't disappoint him again.'

'I bet he's proud of you now.'

'Sometimes,' Arthur shrugged. 'I didn't keep the promise to myself. Despite what you seem to think, I've lost quite in few fights in my time. Like today.'

Merlin scoffed.

'Please, Arthur, you didn't **lose **today. I think when your opponent has six heads that's considered an unfair advantage.'

'Merlin, **you **had to save me. No offence, but I think that counts as failure.'

Merlin didn't reply for a moment, but when he did, his voice had a strange tone to it.

'Arthur, being saved by someone else does not count as failure. We beat the creature, we saved the village, and no-one died. Just because you had to rely on someone else to win doesn't make the part you played any less. Having a team and using it is a strength, not a weakness.'

Arthur didn't reply, being too busy battling a strange feeling of lightness that had come over him at Merlin's words.

Merlin though, appeared to take this for Arthur being angry, because he spoke again.

'Anyway, I had to save you didn't I? It wasn't like I could leave you there to die; who else would clean your beastly armour, and polish your boots and put up with your giant ego?'

Arthur laughed. Once again he was feeling the strange urge to say something more, similar to how he had felt after the incident with the near-engagement and the wearing of the servant's dress robes.

He looked up at Merlin, and was struck by how dark Merlin's eyes looked in this light; deep blue and mysterious, as though they were guarding secrets.

However, his eyes were in direct contrast with his expression, which was open and free of judgement, as though he sensed Arthur's internal conflict.

Arthur looked down at his knees, in a way he hadn't since he was a small boy.

'Thank you, Merlin,' he said.

And although he wasn't looking, he could sense his manservant grinning that ridiculous grin, as Merlin said,

'You're welcome, sire. S'what friends are for.'


	14. Twenty One Years

**Chapter on steroids alert :D Many thanks to the lovely people who reviewed; Xanthiae, Mr. Guppy, CrayonsPink, Cynth19, ForzaDelDestino, and passthejennifish. Your feedback is much appreciated.**

**Quick favour to ask; I'm debating about the direction in which to take this, and I'd like to know what opinions the people reading this have on slash..? Lemme know.**

**Anyway...in which there are birthdays, and everything that goes along with that; presents, friendship, and too much alcohol. **

On the 21st of June, Arthur Pendragon turned twenty one years old.

As you can probably imagine, the birthday of the Crown Prince was a big occasion in Camelot, and every time his birthday rolled around, Arthur was subjected to another lot of jousting, feasting, and dancing.

The only thing that differed from any other special occasion was that people sent presents.

It was the first royal birthday Merlin had witnessed in Camelot; and Arthur got the distinct impression that the other boy didn't really **get **the celebrations.

When Arthur had told him about the jousting, Merlin had stared at him and said,

'You're fighting a tournament on your birthday?!'

Arthur had patiently explained that he wouldn't actually be fighting. The tournament was just being held in his honour.

Merlin had looked yet more puzzled.

'So Uther is giving you a jousting tournament for your birthday? And a feast? And a ball?'

'Yes,' Arthur had said wearily, 'so that the people have a chance to honour me.'

'The people are going to honour you by dancing the night away, stuffing themselves with **your **food and bashing each other on the head for your amusement?'

Merlin had sounded distinctly unimpressed, and this had only increased when Arthur informed him the celebrations were not to be held on his **actual **birthday.

'Why not?' Merlin had demanded, ''I thought your birthday was the **point **of these celebrations.'

'It is,' Arthur had replied, 'but I don't want to spend the **actual **day enduring yet another feast and ball, and watching a tournament I'm not even allowed to participate in.'

Merlin had just stared at him in disbelief, before turning away, muttering,

'And there was I thinking that your birthday celebration was meant to be something you **actually **enjoyed.'

Arthur rolled his eyes. Clearly Merlin was never going to understand social protocol.

* * *

The day of Arthur's birthday celebrations dawned bright and sunny. Arthur opened his eyes at his usual time of half past seven, expecting to see Merlin waiting to wish him happy birthday.

Now, on normal days, it was touch and go as to whether Merlin had even made it up to his room by the time Arthur awoke, let alone actually started on his chores. But today was his birthday, so Arthur had dared to hope that he might wake up to a freshly drawn bath, a nice breakfast and his best clothes, clean and ironed.

As he scanned his chambers, Arthur now realised this had been hopelessly naïve. Not only was there no hot bath, clothes or food, but there was also no sign whatsoever of Merlin.

Looking round his empty room, Arthur felt a strange twinge of something in his stomach. He had never minded waking up on his own before but today, he found himself wishing Merlin were there to banter with and tease.

He lay there for five minutes, just on the off chance his excuse for a manservant would show, before rolling haphazardly out of bed, and pulling on his favourite red shirt.

He pulled on a pair of clean breeches he'd found in the cupboard, washed his face and torso with cold water from the basin, and was halfway through lacing his boots when Merlin finally deigned to put in an appearance.

His manservant edged awkwardly through the door, balancing a large silver tray, and juggling three bouquets of flowers.

Arthur crossed his ankles, leant back, and watched the show.

After a few minutes, several stumbles, and enough curse words to make Hunith's ears burn, Merlin had made it across the floor and deposited his load on the table in front of Arthur.

He straightened up (Arthur had to hold back a wince at the loud crack his back made) and glared at Arthur.

'Thank you for lending me a hand, **sire**.'

'Kindly try to remember I don't pay you to sit around on your ass all day, **Merlin**.'

Merlin huffed.

'Well, you could have helped me through the door at least. I've battled with these beastly things…' at this he shot the bouquets of flowers a vicious look, '…all the way through the kitchens and up **seven **flights of stairs.'

Arthur rolled his eyes.

'What are they for anyway?'

'You, you prat,' Merlin said, 'For your birthday? This is just the finest sampling. I haven't checked but I'm pretty sure there's an entire room downstairs filled with bouquets if you'd care to look later.'

'An entire room?' Arthur did his best to sound surprised.

'Yes, sire. And the madness doesn't end there. You've got hundreds of different parcels of food, plenty of shirts, new breeches, new boots, a new saddle, new pens, new bedding, new hangings for the wall, a new rug, seventeen new tapestries, new riding spurs, a new shield, a new helmet, fourteen new cloaks, several oriental trinkets and a really **ugly **gold ring.'

Merlin rattled this off without pausing for breath, and uttered the last item with a gasp.

Arthur smirked.

'Not a bad haul then.'

Merlin gaped.

'You mean this is normal? You get this **every **year?'

'I am the Prince, Merlin. You should see what my father gets. One year, a couple of young women from an outlying village came and presented **themselves **as gifts to him.'

To give Merlin his due, he did appear to be doing his best to keep the revolted look off his face.

'Please tell me he just sent them away.'

Arthur raised an eyebrow, and Merlin turned away with a shudder.

'I'm not going to be able to look your father in the eye anymore.'

'I'm not entirely sure servants are **meant **to look the King in the eye, Merlin. Wouldn't it be more proper to study his kneecaps?'

Merlin looked surprised at this.

'I look **you **in the eye.'

'You also call me Arthur. Both are flog-able offences.'

Merlin looked horrified.

'I look forward to acquainting myself with your kneecaps then, sire.'

Arthur laughed.

This was what he had missed earlier that morning. The banter, the laughter, and the way Merlin wasn't in the least bit frightened of him. It was almost like conversing with an equal. Add this to the fact that Merlin had called him 'friend' during their conversation in the woods, and the feeling of warmth and camaraderie that Arthur couldn't seem to stop feeling when he was around, Arthur was finding it necessary to remind himself more and more often that Merlin **was **only a servant.

It was far too easy to imagine the luxury of having him as a friend.

* * *

Arthur spent the next half an hour idly watching Merlin doing his chores.

He was normally out on patrol at this time, but all of the knights were otherwise occupied today, preparing for the tournament.

This had its benefits, because Arthur couldn't remember the last time he'd had a lazy morning, and, he'd discovered, watching Merlin like a hawk while he was working made his servant twitchy and irritable in a most amusing fashion.

In fact, Arthur's only grievance at that particular moment was that Merlin had so far, failed to say happy birthday. Arthur had realised that expecting good service was stretching it too far, and had certainly not expected a present, but it would have been nice if Merlin were to actually wish him many happy returns. Surely that was just courtesy at this point?

But then Merlin never had been very good with courtesy, and as he finished sweeping the hearth, he shoved himself to his feet, nodded at Arthur, said,

'I'll see you at the tournament later, sire,' and walked out the door.

Arthur tried not to sulk.

* * *

An unknown number of hours later, Arthur was drunk. Really drunk.

In his defence, it had been a very trying day. He had spent the latter part of the morning watching knights and a few villagers bash each other around in the tournament, and had tried to clap and look honoured and impressed each time a victor thrust his sword in the air.

Secretly, he was picking faults with each fighter's technique, and making a mental list of teaching points he **really **needed to run over with his knights.

Next had come the feast; twelve courses, with every noble dressed in his or her finery, making polite small talk and listening to the best musicians the court had to offer. The food had been wonderful (the cooks had outdone themselves), but Arthur had been more than slightly bored by the conversations going on around him.

Finally, he'd had to endure the ball, three hours of dancing and drinking, during which Arthur had lost count of the number of 'happy birthday's' and 'many happy returns' he had received.

Merlin, for once, had actually been a halfway decent servant, perhaps because the occasion warranted more people looking at him than usual, and as it were Arthur hadn't seen much of him. He had spent the evening discreetly lurking behind pillars, and filling Arthur's cup when Arthur wasn't looking.

The only time Arthur actually got a good look at him was when he looked down towards the servant's end of the hall, and saw Merlin laughing with Gwen, both of them with their heads thrown back. He'd felt a strange pang in his stomach, and if he hadn't been Prince Arthur he might have thought it was jealousy. As it was he put it down to some under-cooked meat.

Unfortunately, a side effect of Merlin actually performing his duties and making sure that Arthur's cup was filled, was that Arthur had felt it was only fair to empty said cup to give him a chance to fill it again.

He'd lost count of the number of goblets of wine he'd had around number eight, but he had a feeling he had perhaps consumed more than he should have.

He was sure Morgana didn't usually have two heads.

* * *

When Arthur next came to, he was equally drunk, but lying on something warm and soft (later identified as the bed) in his chambers.

Two candles were lit on his bedside table, their glow giving the room a cosy feel. Arthur looked down at his chest, and realised he was dressed in his nightshirt.

He wondered briefly who had brought him up here, and who had undressed him, but a sideways look solved both those problems. Merlin was snoozing in Arthur's favourite chair; head nodded forward onto his chest, and long legs stretched out towards the fireplace.

Arthur coughed loudly, and watched his manservant start awake.

Merlin ran a hand through his already rumpled black hair, and yawned hugely, blue eyes scrunching up. Then, he looked around, blinking sleepily, until his eyes came to rest on Arthur, watching him from the bed.

'How did I get up here?' Arthur could hear that he was slurring his words slightly, and guessed his blood must still be at least two out of seven parts alcohol.

Merlin merely looked amused.

'The party got a bit rowdy, and you looked like you were about to fall over, so Morgana and I tactfully removed you. She left dragging you up here to me – were you aware you weigh a ton while drunk?'

Arthur glared at him.

'I'm not fat. And I'm not drunk.'

Merlin grinned.

'Only the very drunk ever deny it in such vehement but slurred tones, sire.'

If Arthur had been feeling more co-ordinated, he would have thrown a pillow.

'Well, alright Merlin, you can go now. You look exhausted.'

Merlin rolled his eyes.

'I **am** exhausted, sire. I've been up since the crack of dawn, as have the other servants, preparing all the celebrations.'

Arthur was starting to feel very sleepy. He yawned hugely and replied,

'It **is** my **birthday **Merlin.'

His manservant stubbornly shook his head.

'No it isn't. Your birthday is tomorrow, Arthur. You didn't even **want **to celebrate like this.'

Arthur yawned again.

'Of course I did, Merlin you prat.'

Merlin rolled his eyes.

'I've been working here for over a year now, Arthur, and you're not actually that difficult to read. It's easy to tell when you're bored stiff.'

Arthur was far too tired to do this now. This and the alcohol were combining to stop him thinking straight and it was this that he blamed for his next words.

'Fine. I hated it, but it's the way things are done when you're a Prince.' Arthur was vaguely aware he hadn't meant to admit that.

Merlin pulled a facial expression that Arthur could have sworn was a pout.

'Personally, I think you being a Prince is even more reason for you to enjoy yourself on your birthday.'

A light bulb went off inside Arthur's head.

'Is that why you haven't said it?'

Merlin looked befuddled. Arthur expected he might not be entirely sober either.

'Haven't said what, Arthur?'

'Happy birthday.' There was a small voice in Arthur's head, one that wasn't swimming in wine, that was screaming at him to stop this conversation so that he could still look Merlin in the eye tomorrow.

Merlin however, had a strange look in his eyes, one in which Arthur thought he could detect sympathy (he might have to beat that out of Merlin later) and something which could have been affection. He spoke, sounding faintly amused.

'God, Arthur, you are going to kick yourself if you remember this conversation in the morning.'

Merlin did, on rare occasions, speak complete sense. But he still hadn't answered Arthur's question.

'You didn't answer the question.'

Merlin laughed.

'No, sire. I don't agree with you being forced through these celebrations, but I understand why you have to do it, and that isn't why I haven't said happy birthday.'

Arthur glowered at him.

'Then why?' he demanded, suspecting he sounded like a three year old.

Merlin's mouth was now twitching with amusement.

'Because it isn't your birthday, sire. I'll say it tomorrow.'

It took longer than usual for this to register, and once it had, Arthur leant back, feeling somehow lighter.

Merlin smiled at him, blue eyes warm.

'You didn't honestly think I'd forgotten did you?'

Arthur remained stubbornly silent.

Merlin laughed.

'You're my friend, Arthur. I wouldn't forget to say happy birthday.'

At these words, Arthur felt something twist in the region of his chest and his cheek muscles ached with the urge to smile. But even drunk, he forced himself to remember exactly who he was. He was the Crown Prince and Merlin was just a servant. He could only imagine his father's reaction if Uther could hear this conversation.

He forced the urge to smile back at Merlin away, and said,

'Don't flatter yourself it actually matters to me if you say happy birthday, Merlin. You are just my servant.'

As soon as he said the words, Arthur wanted to take them back – he could almost see them winging their way across the room and stabbing into Merlin. But what was said was said, and Arthur felt a cold weight in his stomach as Merlin visibly winced, and drew back a little.

He bowed his head, refusing to meet Arthur's eyes, and said,

'Yes, of course. There's a hangover cure on the bedside table; Gaius suggests you take it before you sleep. Goodnight, sire.'

The door to Arthur's chambers shut with a clunk; and Arthur felt the noise echo inside him, before he fell back and let unconsciousness claim him.

* * *

When Arthur awoke the next morning, the first thing he wondered was who had glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and the second was who was pounding his head in with a hammer.

He lay on his back and groaned quietly for five minutes or so, his eyes tight shut. The events of the night before were rushing back to him, and only made him groan all the louder.

He remembered with a flush of humiliation questioning Merlin, and wondered how he had never before realised he was such a pathetic drunk. He topped the flush of humiliation with a flush of shame, as he recalled the harsh words he had spoken.

Arthur was not as quick tempered or prone to cruelty as his father, and his words had been mean and uncalled for. He found himself regretting them, and wishing he could take them back.

Merlin was probably angry with him, and Arthur felt a twinge of regret that he'd probably ruined whatever comradeship had been growing between them. Sure, Merlin was only a servant, but it had been nice having him as a **friendly **servant, and Arthur had come to look forward to his company.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes, belatedly recalling that today **was** actually his birthday.

Arthur looked around the room and his eyes opened in shock.

There was no sign of Merlin, which Arthur had fully been expecting, but what he hadn't been expecting was the state of his rooms.

The floor and grate were swept, the shutters were thrown open, clean clothes were laid out at the foot of the bed, boots by door, and on the table lay a tray.

Arthur rolled sideways out of bed, wondering, slightly panicked, whether Merlin had just upped and left in the middle of the night, and if this was, in fact, the work of another servant. A closer look at the table dispelled this notion.

The tray on the table was laid for breakfast. There were two slices of ham, a fried egg and some sliced tomatoes. Accompanying this was warm, fresh bread, with butter and honey, and, in pride of place at the side of the tray, a single orange. Oranges were rare delicacies in Camelot, and Arthur didn't even want to know where the kitchen staff had found it.

Looking at the food laid out, Arthur had to fight a smile. He had a feeling Merlin might be behind this array of delicacies.

He sat down, preparing to eat, when he noticed two small parcels, and a bunch of flowers sitting in the empty fireplace.

Kneeling down, he picked up the flowers. Unlike the bouquets he had received yesterday, these were simple wildflowers; violets and forget-me-nots, tied together with a piece of white ribbon. They were beautiful.

Arthur reached for the first parcel, which was square, and hard. He untied the string, and the cloth wrapping fell away, revealing a bound book. Arthur looked at the spine, and found it engraved with the title 'Beowulf.'

The volume was made from thick, creamy parchment, and each page was edged with gold, and illustrated beautifully. Arthur gently touched the cover, wondering who had sent the book to him.

Beowulf had been his favourite book when he was a boy, but he had never owned a copy, only borrowed one from his tutor. It had been years since he last read it.

Only intense curiosity about the third package stopped him from settling down to read it right then.

The last parcel was the smallest, rounded in shape, and when Arthur lifted it, soft.

He unbound the string, and pulled away several layers of brown paper. He found a small bundle of red cloth, and as he shook it out, wondering if it was perhaps a neckerchief like the ridiculous ones Merlin wore, a small object fell out, and hit the table with a thwack.

Wincing, Arthur reached for it. He turned it over in his hands, but could see no damage, and so set to examining it. The object was a small, flat piece of grey stone, with a tiny hole carefully bored through one end. Through this hole was threaded a thin strand of leather, turning the stone into a pendant.

Arthur flipped the pendant over, and found on the other side, carefully carved into the stone, a miniscule representation of a dragon, exactly as it was to be found on the Pendragon crest.

The dragon was rearing up; neck curved proudly, and wings aloft. Each line had been carved with delicate precision, and the small creature seemed almost alive.

Arthur wasted no time in tugging the pendant over his head. The stone came to rest at the opening of his shirt, and when he looked in the mirror, it looked like it belonged there.

Now grinning broadly, he sat back down at the table, buttered a slice of bread, and sat down to ponder who was responsible for all this. He was very firmly squashing the part of him that really wanted it to be Merlin.

As he did so, he reached for the book, and spotted something he hadn't noticed the first time he'd examined it. A piece of parchment was sticking out from between the pages.

Arthur yanked it out, and smoothed it down on the table.

_Arthur,_

it read,

_I'm sure as you read this you've already opened the presents. The book is from Morgana, the pendant is from me. Yes, I made it, and I look forward to the jokes. Oh, and Gwen sent the flowers. I hope they meet with Your Highness' royal approval._

_Enjoy the breakfast - you don't even want to know what I had to do to get that orange._

_Happy Birthday._

_M_

Arthur finished reading, and then crumpled the note in his fist, unable to stop himself grinning like a mad man.

Never before had he received presents like this. The only similar occasion had been when he was six and his nurse had given him a small wolfhound puppy. Arthur had adored the animal for all of five days before Uther decreed he was too attached and decided to teach him a lesson by giving the puppy to the daughter of a passing noble. Arthur never saw it again.

Stupid and unreasonable as it was to be so pleased over a book and a pendant when he had been showered with all kinds of finery the day before Arthur felt very warm inside.

He wolfed the egg and ham, drained a goblet of water, hangover almost forgotten, and then paused to look at the orange.

Reaching out a hand, he pocketed it, and strode out of the door.

* * *

Irritatingly, it took Arthur most of the morning to find Merlin, and by the time he finally located the stupid boy his good mood had waned slightly.

As it was, it had been something of a stroke of luck finding him.

Arthur had been reduced to checking the stables to see if Merlin was hiding there, and, not much looking forward to having to check every single stall, he was relieved to see a stable boy coming out of the nearest stable.

Arthur called him over, and asked,

'Have you seen a boy in the stalls?'

The stablehand shrugged, looking suitably terrified.

'There's no-one around this morning, sire. The King took a hunting party out, so most of the stable boys have gone.'

Arthur shook his head impatiently.

'No, I'm not talking about a stable hand. I'm looking for my manservant. He's about my height (slightly taller actually, but Arthur was **never **going to admit that), scruffy dark hair, unhealthily thin…'

'Enormous ears?' The stable boy cut in, looking relieved. 'Yes, he's round the back in the yard, by the hay bales. But I'm not supposed to tell anyone he's there.'

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.

'I'm Crown Prince of Camelot.'

The stable boy cringed.

'Round that corner, through the second gate on the left. Look behind the hay stack.'

Arthur nodded his thanks.

* * *

He finally located Merlin sprawled in a pile of hay, stretched out like a cat, with his eyes closed in the sun.

Arthur coughed pointedly.

Without even opening his eyes, Merlin said,

'Marcus is such a snitch.'

Arthur presumed Marcus was the stable boy.

'Marcus has some respect for royal orders. You could learn a thing or two from him.'

Merlin opened one eye, and fixed Arthur with a baleful stare.

'I've done everything required of me this morning, sire. Was there something else you wanted?'

Arthur paused, unsure, now that he had found his manservant, what he actually wanted to say.

'We're going hunting.'

It wasn't quite what he'd had planned, but maybe a hunt would help clear his head. Merlin opened his mouth to protest.

'Royal order, Merlin.'

* * *

An hour later, they were stalking a fine deer through the forest outside Camelot. Arthur had already shot a couple of rabbits, and they were strung on a stake over Merlin's shoulders.

Few words had been exchanged between the two so far. Despite what Arthur had woken up to that morning, Merlin seemed determined to maintain a detached, almost professional façade. Getting one word answers where he would normally have received snappy retorts was grating somewhat on Arthur's nerves.

Eventually he had had enough.

'Come on, out with it. You've been surly all morning.'

Merlin deliberately looked the other way.

'Nothing's wrong, sire.'

Despite Merlin's attempts at professionalism, he still couldn't quite pull off the 'sire' without a trace of contempt.

Arthur sighed.

'Look, I owe you an apology. I was very drunk last night and…'

Before he could get to the end of his sentence, Merlin cut him off.

'It's fine Arthur. You don't need to explain yourself. Careful or I might forget I'm only a servant.'

His tone made Arthur's blood boil. Arthur Pendragon did not do apologies, and it was just so **bloody typical **that Merlin could not make it easy.

'And what's **that **supposed to mean?'

Merlin glared at him, something dark swirling in stormy blue eyes.

'You are **impossible**. Each time I'm convinced that you're different to your father, that you'll be a great King and that somewhere, maybe, you **actually **have a heart, you act like a self-centred, self-absorbed, self-obsessed…' Merlin trailed off, sputtering with anger.

'Clotpole?' Arthur suggested.

'**CLOTPOLE**.' Merlin seized the word with relish.

Arthur wanted to laugh, but sensed this might be deemed insensitive.

'If I'm so self-centred, then why did you bother to leave me all that this morning?

If looks could kill, Uther would be arranging the funeral right now.

'**Because **Morgana, Gwen and I had it all planned, and it seemed a shame to let it go to waste because you'd suddenly decided you were too good for the likes of Gwen and I!'

Arthur winced.

'Merlin, I don't think I'm too good for you and Guinevere.'

Merlin made a small noise of disbelief.

Arthur sighed. Pulling his sleeve up slightly, he showed Merlin the small white scar at the top of his palm.

Despite himself, Merlin looked curious.

'I got that when I was about sixteen. I was leading my first hunt, and we were tracking a stag. I was nervous, and when the time came to shoot the animal, I found myself reluctant to go through with it.'

Merlin looked a bit sceptical.

'You love to hunt.'

Arthur shrugged.

'I didn't then. The stag was a beauty, to this day I've seen few to match it, and it just seemed…a waste to kill it.'

'What did you do?'

'I lowered the bow. But then my father's favourite knight asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. I knew if I didn't take the shot, Uther would be furious. There are only so many times you can disappoint the King, Merlin, even if he is your father.'

'You killed the stag?'

'Yes. That was the first day I had to choose between what I wanted to do and what was expected of me. It's a choice I hate making, but at the end of the day my duty is to Camelot.'

Merlin sighed.

'And it isn't expected of you to be friends with a servant.'

Arthur shook his head.

'No.'

Merlin heaved a sigh. He smiled at Arthur, although it was tinged with a little sadness, and a little disappointment. It hurt Arthur's head.

'Ah well,' he said, 'I couldn't help being born a lowly village boy, anymore than you could help being born a prat.'

He paused.

'A royal prat.'

And then,

'Sire.'

* * *

They never did catch the deer that afternoon, and returned to Camelot with only a few rabbits. Merlin had remained quiet throughout the rest of the trip, yet what he had said played on Arthur's mind.

He'd spent the last ten years or so being Arthur, Crown Prince of Camelot, but this last year, with Merlin and Guinevere, and to some extent Morgana, he'd been rediscovering what it was like to be just Arthur.

And he liked it. It was nice to just be himself once in a while, with people who didn't judge. Anyway, how was he supposed to find it in him to be a good King, when he didn't even know who he really was?

Maybe it wasn't proper to be friends with his manservant, and the King's ward and her serving girl, but did that necessarily mean it was wrong? He was the Crown Prince and heir to the throne, surely the job must have some perks?

Arthur was fully aware that he might not be thinking this way, had it not been for the fact that Merlin was being unusually subservient and polite recently, and Arthur was starting to greatly miss his company. Not that he would** ever **admit that to anyone.

Arthur reached up to tug at the pendant around his neck, which Merlin must have spent hours carving, and which, Arthur realised, he had never actually thanked him for, when a knock at the door interrupted his pondering

Arthur called out,

'Come!'

A servant poked his head around the door.

'The King requests your presence in court my Lord.'

Arthur nodded at him, heaved a sigh, and got to his feet.

He made his way down to the courtroom, wondering what on earth his father could want.

On reaching the courtroom, he pushed open the heavy oak double doors, to find a room containing his father, along with two royal advisors, Gaius and Morgana, with Gwen and Merlin standing behind them in a corner, and a collection of villagers, who had presumably come to ask for Camelot's help.

Half an hour later, it had been decided that the village of Olivadan would be exempt from paying the grain tax this year as a failed harvest had left them with only the bare minimum in terms of food. The villagers had been dispatched to a nearby inn, where the court would pay for them to board and eat for a night.

Gaius, Morgana and Gwen were making their way towards the door of the courtroom, and Arthur was following, Merlin presumably somewhere behind him, when Uther called out.

'Arthur, a word.'

Arthur turned back, trying not to notice the way Merlin automatically dropped his eyes, until he was indeed staring at Arthur's kneecaps. Merlin brushed past him, with a muttered 'sire'.

'Yes, father?'

Uther gave Arthur a long hard look.

'Is something the matter, Arthur?'

'Nothing at all.'

It was the closest to a heart to heart they ever got.

'Hmmm.' Uther did not sound convinced and peered at him more closely. Arthur steadfastly refused to squirm.

'What is that around your neck?'

Arthur's hand went automatically up to tug at the pendant.

'Oh it's just a pendant.'

'I can see that,' Uther's tone was cutting, 'I don't recognise it. Who gave it to you?'

'Uh….'

Arthur ran through various options in his head. He couldn't say his manservant (inappropriate), he couldn't say Morgana (inappropriate), he couldn't say a visiting noble (inappropriate) and he certainly couldn't say Merlin (disaster).

Eventually, smiling slightly, he settled for,

'It was a gift from a friend.'

Uther harrumphed, but turned his attention back to the report he was studying, so Arthur considered himself dismissed.

He turned back in the direction of the door, and was greeted by the sight of Merlin, one hand on the door handle, clearly in the middle of eavesdropping, and grinning bright enough to light up the entire court.

And Arthur, God help him, smiled back.


	15. Twenty One Years, Two Months

**I've no idea what happened to my rule of 3000 words per chapter because this is an 8000 word monster. Sorry about that. I would also like to say, in response to a couple of queries I've had, that, yes, this story does use some elements of The Once and Future King, and yes, it also uses some elements from the BBC program. As you'll probably be able to tell by the end of this chapter, I'm not exactly sticking to canon in either universe, in fact I'm pretty much just haphazarly sticking together odds and ends I liked from both. Hope that clears up any confusion :)**

**Thank you very very much to Xanthiae, passthejennifish, Cynth19, Cleopatra's Snake, CrayonsPink, ema_neslaf, ForzaDelDestino, WinterStorrm, Mr Guppy, fey of the forest, jkrm310, Death-to-the-tadpoleclowns and goodythreeshoes for the wonderful reviews. I really appreciate them. **

**And I just want to share one fact I learnt that made the world seem to me a brighter place. A pregnant goldfish is called a twit. **

**In which there was meant to be slash, but it never happened, and instead there is heroism and Nimueh. **

When Arthur Pendragon was twenty one years and two months old, he risked his life for a servant.

Throughout the year and one month of Merlin's employment, they'd each done their fair share of life saving (Arthur was ahead by one, not that anyone was actually counting), but this time was different.

All the other rescues had been spur of the moment, right place at the right time sort of occasions; events where, if you were particularly cynical, the heroism of those involved could be put entirely down to pure luck.

This was entirely different.

* * *

Everything started when the court of Camelot received a letter from King Bayard of Mercia, requesting a meeting, with a view to potentially signing a peace treaty. To say the arrival of this letter had been a shock would be an understatement; Mercia was the one of only a few nearby kingdoms that Camelot did not get along with perfectly amicably.

Yet, having just recorded the worst harvest on record, and with at least thirty percent of Camelot's soldiers away on a crusade to the Orkney Isles, Uther was in no position to turn down an offer of peace and reconciliation.

So on the 17th of July, the court of Mercian officials, lead by King Bayard, and his son William, arrived in Camelot.

It was the tensest few days of negotiations that Arthur had ever been party to. Uther had the look of a man who feels he is being tempted into a trap but must proceed blindly anyway, and snapped and shouted at anyone who put a toe out of a line, and a few who didn't.

Bayard's eyes seemed to shout his disdain and disgust at the very idea of signing a peace treaty with Camelot, yet he seemed determined to go through with it, for reasons unbeknown to Arthur or anyone else (even his own men, it seemed).

Eventually, after four days and six hours of discussions, debates and what could only be described as school-boy sniping, the completed treaty was laid out on the table, and all that remained was to sign it.

All the representatives of both courts gathered, along with various servants from both kingdoms to witness the event.

Arthur was stood at the front, on Uther's right hand side, across from Morgana, and opposite William. He watched as his father lifted the quill to sign, able to note only because of his proximity the way Uther's knuckles whitened with the strength of his grip.

The treaty was then pushed across to Bayard, who looked at it as though there was a bad smell under his nose. Arthur was starting to feel that there was definitely something suspicious about Mercia's motives for wanting this treaty; seeing as respect, benevolence and the hope for a lasting and beautiful friendship had been crossed very firmly off the list of possibilities by about hour three of the negotiations.

However, it was to a chorus of relieved sighs that Bayard finally scrawled his signature across the bottom of the piece of parchment.

There was an outbreak of applause and general back-slapping, and Uther and Bayard got up to shake hands, both with pasted on smiles that would have looked less out of place on sharks.

Arthur settled back into his chair, and prepared a suitably interested expression for the round of speeches and toasting that was sure to follow.

Servants moved forward from the sides of the room, holding trays of wine goblets, and it was only because Arthur was looking in their direction that he saw a slim, dark-haired girl slip in at the back. At first glance there was nothing extra-ordinary about her – she wore modest robes of blue, her hair pinned up in the Mercian way, and everything about her demure posture screamed 'servant'. Yet, somehow, there was something about her that made Arthur look twice.

And on that second glance, somehow she didn't seem quite so ordinary. The few strands of her dark hair that had wormed their way free were lustrous and shiny, her skin was creamy pale, and her lips were stained red. But although this all seemed out of place on a mere servant girl, it was her eyes that bothered Arthur the most.

The only servants he had ever bothered to study particularly closely were Merlin and Guinevere, and while in outward appearance their eyes were as different as night and day; one pair bright blue, the other warm brown, they had one thing in common. The expressions of both Merlin and Gwen were warm, honest and open – totally without guile.

But this woman...her eyes were similar to Merlin's in colour but they had an icier tinge, and as Arthur watched her she turned to look at him, and the malicious humour and coldness in her gaze made him flinch.

He made himself look back, telling himself he was being ridiculous; she was just a servant – a Mercian one – but a mere servant none the less.

His concentration was interrupted when a goblet was passed to him, and as Arthur broke her gaze, he could have sworn he saw the serving girl smile.

Momentarily, he felt a sharp sense of unease, like there was some unknown danger waiting to happen, but when he caught his father's eye, Arthur immediately felt stupid and shrugged his shoulders, as if to physically shake of the bout of paranoia.

On the other side of the table, Bayard stood up, and raised his goblet,

'To Camelot!' he boomed, 'and to our new allegiance!'

Everyone around the table rose as one; Arthur included, joining the toast.

However, he had barely had the chance to touch his goblet to his lips, when the great double doors at the end of the room burst open, and no other than Merlin came crashing through.

'NO! ARTHUR, STOP, DON'T DRINK IT. IT'S POISONED!'

Even at this distance Arthur could see that Merlin was stark white, his perpetually pale cheeks completely drained of colour, as though someone had pulled the plug, and his eyes were wild and panicked.

It was this, combined with the sheer terror in Merlin's voice that made Arthur lower his goblet, while everyone else in the hall was still staring, and clearly wondering if this newcomer had escaped from an asylum.

For about thirty seconds more, everyone remained frozen, and then the entire courtroom moved as one. Gaius and Gwen moved a few steps forward from the edge of the hall as though to offer their support to Merlin. The Mercian knights, lead by Bayard drew their swords, as the latter demanded,

'What **exactly **would you be accusing me of, boy?'

Uther just looked faintly sick, as he turned to Merlin and said,

'**What **is the meaning of this?'

And amid it all, all Merlin did was point to the goblet still in Arthur's hand, and gasp out,

'Poison. The goblet's poisoned.'

All eyes turned to Arthur. Arthur looked down at the goblet in his hand. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary on the cup, and (he took a tentative sniff) it didn't smell unusual either. If it hadn't been for the fact it was **Merlin** making the claim, Arthur would have instantly dismissed it.

'**ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF TRYING TO POISON PRINCE ARTHUR?' **Bayard roared, and Arthur could almost sense Uther's growing desire to strangle Merlin. Luckily for all, Gaius took control.

'Now now, my Lord, no-one is suggesting that. Merlin, who told you the goblet was poisoned?'

Merlin, who just looked vastly relieved that Arthur wasn't showing any signs of drinking, said,

'A Mercian servant girl. She overheard a plot to poison Arth…the Prince, and felt too guilty to stand by and let it happen, so she warned me.'

This of course was the downside to Merlin's aforementioned trusting nature. To Arthur the entire story sounded vaguely suspicious at best, and at worst, a load of complete bollocks.

Unfortunately for Merlin, both Uther and Bayard seemed to agree. Bayard took a threatening step forward.

'And who, **exactly**, might you be?'

Merlin opened his mouth, but Arthur cut across him before he could speak.

'This is my manservant, sire.'

Uther closed his eyes.

Bayard examined Merlin with the look of one casting an eye over a particularly unappealing puddle of vomit.

'I hadn't realised, Uther, that it was common practice in Camelot for servants to go around accusing visiting nobles of attempting to poison the heir to the throne.'

Uther glared at Merlin.

'Neither had I,' he said, and turned to Arthur, 'Arthur perhaps you could explain the conduct of your manservant?'

Arthur hastily ran through excuses in his mind; lovesick, mental affliction, terrible sleepwalker, been at the wine; when Gaius intervened.

'Sire, if you don't mind me saying so, perhaps we should consider the nature of the accusation first, as opposed to the manner in which it was presented, or the person at whom it was aimed.'

Arthur looked down at the cup.

'You're surely not suggesting that the wine is actually poisoned, Gaius?' Uther asked, and Arthur was sure he could hear the sound of grinding teeth.

Gaius inclined his head.

'Merlin has given us ample reason to trust him in the past.'

At these words, Merlin threw Gaius a look of such gratitude, Arthur fully expected he'd **volunteer **to clean out the leech tank that night.

Bayard looked furious.

'Well, there's only one way to test the claim. If the boy is so sure, let him drink from the goblet.'

'Absolutely **not**.' Arthur had spoken without thinking, and as the entire court turned to look at him, he scrambled for words, knowing only that he was not having Merlin drink possible poison as some weird kind of truth test.

Bayard raised an eyebrow, a nasty smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

'Well, then Prince Arthur, what do **you **suggest?'

Arthur drew himself up to his full height, anger fizzing in his veins.

'It is **not **common practice in Camelot to gamble with lives of our servants,' he snapped, 'and as you appear to think a taste test is the way to proceed, perhaps you should be the one to carry it out?'

There was a ripple of murmurs and gasps, and one glance at Uther lead Arthur to believe his father would quite cheerfully tear his head off later that evening.

Bayard, however, instead of looking incensed, wore a smile that tended more towards amused. If Arthur wasn't much mistaken he was actually enjoying this.

'And if the goblet **is **poisoned?'

'Then your plan will rather have backfired won't it?'

It was Merlin who answered, and forget about Uther tearing off Arthur's head, Arthur was going to tear off Merlin's.

Bayard bought the hilt of his sword crashing down on the table.

'**SLANDER**' he roared, and my God, Arthur was going to get Morgana to stitch Merlin's mouth shut at the earliest opportunity.

Just then William spoke up for the first time.

'I am sure,' he said, 'that King Bayard would be perfectly willing to drink from the goblet, were it not such an insult, as no assassination plot has been formed by Mercia. However, as the manservant was so quick to accuse Mercia, perhaps we can suggest that Prince Arthur takes a drink? After all, this may all be some clever ploy on Camelot's behalf to manoeuvre my father into willingly drinking himself to death.'

There was a string of outraged gasps from Camelot's side of the court, and Uther pounded a fist on the table, with a roar of,

'Absolutely **not!**'

'If this was our plot,' Arthur snarled, 'we'd have done things by the knight's code. We would not stoop to secretly poisoning a royal guest. There is a code of **honour **in Camelot.'

William smiled, smooth as a snake.

'Well if this whole situation is nothing to do with us, and nothing to do with you, then there is only one person left to consider.'

As all eyes turned to Merlin, Arthur got the distinct feeling he'd just been played. Merlin had gone even whiter than before, but to Arthur's horror, his manservant was slowly nodding.

'Yeah, okay. Yeah, I'll drink it.'

And Merlin stepped forward, quick as an arrow, and plucked the goblet from its place in front of Arthur on the table. Arthur erupted forwards, but Merlin was too quick, and slipped neatly back out of range.

'Merlin, are you **insane**? There's a possibility you could **die **if you drink that!' Arthur spat, something that felt horribly like panic causing his voice to rise.

Merlin shrugged a shoulder, and gave Arthur a funny little smile.

'Better me than you, sire.'

And then, before anyone could stop him, although Arthur, Gwen and Gaius all moved forward to try, Merlin raised the goblet, and in one smooth motion drained the entire contents with a gulp.

There was absolute silence in the court. Merlin swayed a little on his feet, still clutching the goblet, but then righted himself, and looked up at Arthur with a broad grin.

A wave of relief, absolute and all-consuming, tore through Arthur with the force of a tidal wave, and he grinned back at Merlin before he could stop himself.

This relief was brought to a screeching halt when Uther rose.

'Guards! Take this man,' he stabbed a leather-gloved finger at Merlin, 'to the dungeons, immediately!'

'Wait, what?' Merlin looked completely befuddled.

Uther glowered at him.

'You accused the **King **of Mercia of trying to poison my son, and your claims were entirely unfounded. That is slander and your actions will **not **go unpunished.'

Across the room, William was smirking at Arthur, and Arthur found himself dreading the day when he replaced Bayard as King. He got the feeling that day would mean nothing good for Camelot.

Meanwhile, Merlin was turning to him, alarm written clearly in his ridiculously blue eyes.

'Arth…sire, I honestly thought that goblet was poisoned!'

Arthur sighed, and turned to Uther.

'Father, I believe my manservant made a genuine mistake. He was driven entirely by his wish to protect me and meant, I'm sure, no personal insult to King Bayard.'

Uther was just drawing himself up to bellow at Arthur, when there was a sudden clunk to Arthur's right.

All heads turned. The wine goblet lay at Merlin's feet, the remaining droplets of wine trickling out onto the floor to stain the grey flagstones a vivid red.

A horribly cold feeling crept over Arthur as he raised his eyes to look at Merlin. His manservant had bypassed white and gone completely grey, and his blue eyes were filled with panic and pain as he staggered sideways.

Merlin collapsed forward to his knees with a crunch, clutching at his stomach, and gasping in an attempt to draw air into his lungs. His horror-filled gaze never left Arthur's until, after what seemed like an eternity, his eyes rolled back into his head and he keeled over onto his side, and lay still.

Everyone moved at once.

A look of horror was sweeping over Bayard's features, and Uther had risen to his feet, and was turning slowly towards the other King. The servants were babbling nervously and backing away, and Morgana looked like she might burst into tears.

Arthur had eyes for none of this. Like Gaius and Gwen, his first thought was to get to Merlin.

He felt like ice was running in his veins instead of blood, and his heart was painfully constricting as he fought his way through the throng of people, needing to get to Merlin, and see **now** whether or not he was still breathing.

God, please let him still be breathing.

When Arthur finally reached Merlin's side, his manservant wasn't moving at all, was lying, corpse pale and just as still, his eyes peacefully shut. Gwen was holding his hand, tears running down her cheeks. Gaius was more practical, his experienced hands roved Merlin's body, pulling back an eyelid, taking a pulse, loosening the clothing around Merlin's chest and neck. It was only when he looked up at Arthur that Arthur could see the worry in the old man's eyes – worry which, he was sure, was perfectly reflected in his own.

'Arthur, sire, we need to get him out of here. He's still breathing; the poison is slow moving, and if we act quickly, there may still be a chance.'

Arthur was moving before Gaius had even finished speaking, hefting Merlin up into his eyes, cradling the other boy against his chest as carefully as he could. As Gaius began to push a clear path through the crowds, Arthur turned back to Guinevere, saying,

'Bring the goblet.'

As he did so, his eyes happened to glance along the back wall, and he couldn't help but notice that the dark haired serving girl was no longer there.

* * *

Back in Gaius' chambers, Arthur laid Merlin down on a narrow cot. Over the duration of the short trip, Merlin had become a lot more active. His eyes were rolling and twitching under their lids and his arms and legs kept thrashing around – catching Arthur several reasonably painful blows – but Arthur would berate him for that when he was better. Because there was no doubt in Arthur's mind that Merlin was **going **to get better.

Merlin's skin had also become hot, and he was flushed and sweaty, his cheeks tinged a feverish pink, and Arthur couldn't decide whether that worried him more or less than the previous grey.

He slumped into a chair to the left of the cot, and tried to stay silent and unobtrusive as both Gaius and Gwen got to work.

Gwen seemed to automatically know what was required of her, as she went for water and then began ringing out rags and gently bathing Merlin's forehead.

On the other side of the room, Gaius was the very picture of a focused scientist, as he examined the goblet, and then began hurriedly concocting something in a pot over the fire.

For the first time in his life, Arthur was utterly irrelevant to the scene, and the feeling of uselessness itched under his skin, crawling unbearably.

Gaius seemed to sense this, because he suddenly looked up and said,

'We need to identify the poison first, sire. That's what this,' he waved a hand at the pot, 'is for. Once we know what the poison is, we'll know how to treat it.'

Arthur nodded.

'Anything I can do?' His voice sounded choked, even to his own ears.

Gaius paused in his frenetic movements and looked Arthur in the eye.

'Just sit there with him and watch over him while I finish this,' he looked over at Gwen as well, 'he'll like to know that you two are here.'

That said, Gaius turned instantly back to his work, leaving Arthur feeling somehow horribly guilty at having allowed this to happen at all. Especially to Merlin of all people, who apparently would be very happy just to 'have him here'.

Ten minutes or so later, Gaius appeared to have concluded his potion making. At any rate he was peering into the pot as though it contained the secrets of life and death. Which, Arthur supposed, for Merlin it did.

He got up, and made his way over to the physician. As he approached he saw Gaius drop something into the pot, and when he reached his side, all he could see was a tiny wisp of smoke rising from the bubbling liquid. But when he looked up at Gaius, the old man had gone stark white.

'What…' Arthur began, his voice croaking, 'what is it?'

Gaius heaved a bone weary sigh.

'Bad news, sire.'

'How bad?'

Gaius reached into a pot on the work bench and pulled out a fresh flower petal, dropping it into the clear fluid in the pot. As Arthur watched, the flower petal wrinkled, turning brown and fading before his eyes, and all the while the liquid in the pot got darker. Once the potion was a deadly, vicious black, the flower petal vanished completely, and just a wisp of smoke was emitted, before the liquid reverted to clear.

Arthur froze, the ice stabbing holes in his veins.

'That's not poison, is it?' he said.

Gaius shook his head gravely.

'Not one that I've ever seen.'

Arthur closed his eyes, before forcing himself to ask the question that he already knew the answer to.

'Magic?'

Gaius nodded.

'Dark magic. Ancient magic.'

'Who?'

Gaius shrugged.

'The question is not who. Whoever he or she is she will be long gone by now. The question is how do we stop it.'

As Gaius uttered the words 'he or she' an image of the Mercian serving girl floated to the forefront of Arthur's mind, but he firmly pushed it back. Now was **not **the time.

'Can we stop it?' he gestured to the pot, 'that looked fairly unstoppable to me.'

'On a flower petal, yes. But Merlin is stronger. Stronger than anyone else I've ever met, and he'll fight it. He's already slipping into a coma, but we have one, maybe two days.'

Normally Arthur would have spluttered at anyone calling Merlin strong, but as he looked as his manservant, quietly moaning on the bed, images of Merlin flashed through his head.

Merlin, new in Camelot, standing up to him; not knowing who Arthur was and then refusing to back down even when he found out.

Merlin pressing and pressing - pushing Arthur to let him in and breaking down Arthur's boundaries bit by bit.

Merlin, providing terrible service, but being a good friend, and being blazingly, blindly loyal even when Arthur behaved like an utter…clotpole.

Merlin following him on every quest, into every bit of trouble, and trying to save Arthur's life with absolutely no consideration for his own at all.

Maybe Gaius was right. Maybe Merlin was every bit as strong as a warrior even if he was liable to chop off his own foot if you gave him a sword.

Arthur straightened up and looked the physician straight in the eye.

'What do we do?'

* * *

After twenty minutes or so of frantic research through the dusty old tomes that littered Gaius' workshop, the only answer they'd found was one that Arthur found hugely unsatisfactory.

'Without knowing what spell was used,' Gaius informed him, 'there is no way we can come up with a specific counter. The only thing we can do is find something that provides some healing and protection against all kinds of black magic.'

'There's something that can do that?' Arthur asked, wondering as he did so why the hell people did not just use this object all the time.

Gaius had paused, eyeing Arthur with concern.

'Yes, sire. But few know of its existence, let alone its whereabouts and many have died on quests to attain it.'

'What **is **it?'

Gaius had pushed an old book towards him, and pointed at a faded picture of a small yellow flower.

'The Morteus flower. It is found in one place only; the Caves of Eladon, hidden deep in the Forest of Balor.'

So far this wasn't sounding like all that much of a problem to Arthur.

Gaius continued.

'…no-one knows precisely where these caves are, and there have long been rumours of magical beasts haunting the woods. Many have perished in its leafy depths…'

'Leafy depths?' Arthur interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

'I am merely reading from the book, sire.'

Arthur decided to speed up the process.

'So basically, this flower will cure Merlin, but it's hidden in a cave that can't be found, surrounded by magical beasts and lots of people have died trying to get to it?'

Gaius nodded.

'Fantastic.'

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, and straightened up.

'How many hours ride away is the forest?'

Gaius shrugged.

'Four, maybe five at the most. But it's getting dark, sire, it would be suicide to leave at this hour.'

Arthur looked deliberately at Merlin, who was still quietly moaning.

'If we wait until morning, then Merlin doesn't stand a chance. I'd never make it back in time.'

Gaius did a double take.

'**You, **sire?'

'What?' Arthur snapped.

'I...just presumed you would send some of your knights or…'

'No.' Arthur spoke too loudly and replied too quickly. Gaius looked faintly startled.

'No-one can know about this,' Arthur insisted, 'Not even my father. **Especially **not my father.'

'But sire, to go alone would be…'

'Suicide? Look, without that flower Merlin's going to die. Fairly obviously collecting the flower is not a task for you and Guinevere. Equally obviously my father is not going to give me permission to risk a dozen knights for a servant, and so this is the only option we have left.'

Gaius nodded, and when Arthur looked at him, there was a look of such warmth and affection in the old man's eyes that Arthur had to look away again.

'Thank you, Arthur.' Gaius' voice was quiet but sincere.

Arthur shrugged, knowing the physician was surprised at him so obviously being prepared to risk his life for Merlin. To tell the truth Arthur was surprised himself.

But although the mission was dangerous and potentially very fatal, all Arthur knew was that not even trying to save Merlin was absolutely **not **an option. The very notion of it was totally unacceptable to him.

He looked back at Gaius.

'He'd do the same for me.'

* * *

Forty five minutes later, Arthur was riding out of Camelot, under the cover of gathering dusk. All he had with him were the most basic supplies of food and drink, a pouch for the Morteus flower, and his sword.

He had been riding for just over four hours when he came to the edge of the Forest of Balor. He reigned in his horse, a black destrier named Plato, and peered into the gloomy expanse of trees. He was on the slight incline of a hill, and so could see the vast expanse of trees stretching for miles and miles, a bank of mist swirling gently above the thick canopy.

The trees themselves were close together, only a narrow pathway pierced the wall of foliage, and whatever light was remaining was swiftly swallowed by the darkness about twelve feet in. Ignoring every instinct he had, Arthur nudged Plato forward, feeling the animal shifting nervously under him.

Together they progressed into the trees.

As Arthur had predicted, they had only gone about twelve strides, before darkness swallowed them completely. Trying not to shiver, Arthur reigned Plato back again and forced himself to wait until his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

At last they did, and Arthur could vaguely make out the wall of black, gnarled shapes on either side of him, and the clear area of path ahead.

Firmly, before he could change his mind, he squeezed with his legs, and Plato moved forward.

They progressed slowly down the path for about half an hour, although to Arthur it felt like several lifetimes, before emerging into a small clearing.

Arthur dismounted in the middle of the cleared circle, and tied Plato's reigns to a conveniently placed fallen tree.

Had he been more alert he would perhaps have noticed the dark figure in the trees on the other side of the clearing, but as it was, his entire attention was held by the small, dark opening to a cave that lay about ten feet away.

Could this be the Cave of Eladon that Gaius had spoken of? There was only one way to know for sure, but every inch of Arthur's skin went cold with fear at the very idea of going into that gaping dark mouth.

He made himself think of Merlin, slowly dying back in Camelot and all because he voluntarily drank a poison meant for Arthur. Arthur thought back to his words of many months ago, and realised how very true they had been. There is never a choice, only a path we must follow.

Summoning his courage, he edged forward into the darkness.

Within a foot of the entrance, Arthur had been swallowed by blackness. Instinctively he drew his sword, and then, when his eyes showed no signs of adjusting, felt for the edge of the cave wall and began to grope his way along.

The rock felt clammy beneath his palm, and the air was so cold it hurt to breathe in. Arthur's heart was beating painfully in his chest, as he fought the feeling that he was groping his way down into the bowels of hell.

He had taken exactly seventy six strides when he first saw the light. At the end of the passage he was following, there was a slight glow of greenish gold.

Arthur's heart gave a leap, whether of fear or hope he could not tell, and he had to fight the urge to run towards the light.

As it was, he was very glad he hadn't, because when he eventually turned the corner to come face to face with the source of the glow, he found himself standing on a ledge, about half a foot away from a drop of indeterminate length.

Just as an experiment, Arthur dropped a small pebble off the edge of the cliff, but as hard as he listened he did not hear it hit the bottom. He strengthened his grip on the wall with a shudder.

Opposite him, was a large wall of jagged black rock, and every few foot or so there was a small clump of moss growing. It was this plant that was giving off the light for it glowed green, and tiny gold spores swirled in the air above each clump. Arthur watched entranced for a few seconds, before remembering what he was actually looking for.

Scanning the wall, he was about to give up and return the way he had come, when he spotted it.

About fifteen foot up, growing in a small tight crevice, was a tiny yellow flower. A wave of triumph, relief and happiness washed through Arthur, filling him with new confidence.

He was just examining a wide-ish ledge at the base of the wall, and debating whether or not he could safely jump to it when he heard the voice.

'Well, well, well, Arthur Pendragon. If this isn't more than I could possibly have hoped.'

Arthur froze, knowing who the voice belonged to without even having to turn around. His feet felt heavy as lead as he forced them to shuffle in a circle, until eventually he was facing the Mercian servant girl.

Except now, she didn't look so much like a servant girl. The lustrous dark hair was freed to tumble around her face in wild curls, and her cheeks were flushed with excitement. She had exchanged the blue servant's guise for a tattered dress of crimson red, which only served to accentuate her creamy skin.

If it hadn't been for the cruelty shining in her blue eyes, she would have been quite quite beautiful, Arthur thought.

'Who are you?' he asked, and was ashamed to hear his voice come out as more of a croak.

She laughed.

'Does it matter who I am?'

Arthur drew himself up.

'It matters to me. You almost killed a friend of mine.'

'A friend?' the girl laughed again, malice ringing in the sound, 'I thought he was only your servant.'

Arthur glared at her fiercely.

'Merlin is more than a servant.'

For some reason, this statement quieted her laughter. Instead she examined him closely, a strange glint in her eyes.

'More than a servant, is he? But I wonder, Arthur Pendragon, if you really have any idea **how **much more than a servant Merlin really is.'

Arthur stared at her.

'What is **that **supposed to mean?'

This made her smile again.

'Oh, so he **hasn't **told you.'

'Told me **what**?'

She grinned, teeth showing.

'Never mind. None of that matters anymore. Not after today.'

This statement did not suggest good things to Arthur.

'if you're going to try and kill me again,' he said, 'I would at least like to know who you are and why.'

She looked at him, almost pityingly.

'You're so like your father, Arthur. He always thought everything was about him as well.'

'You know my father?'

'I knew your father. We were friends once, a long time ago.'

Arthur stared at her for a second, before the second half of what she had said registered with him.

'What do you mean, not everything's about me?'

A light dawned.

'It **wasn't **me that poison was intended for? Then who? Bayard?'

The girl shook her head.

'Oh no, Arthur, the poison was intended for you. But you were just a secondary target. Collateral damage, one might say, but necessary to trap the real prize.

'My father?'

This seemed to anger her.

'No, you fool, that stupid bumbling manservant of yours. **Merlin**.'

If Arthur had been confused before, that was nothing to how he felt now.

'The poison was intended for me, but you meant to kill Merlin? Why would **anyone **want to kill Merlin? He's possibly the most harmless idiot to ever walk the earth.'

The girl through back her head, and laughed.

'Oh the sweet irony of that statement, Arthur Pendragon. The poison was meant for you. It was meant to be you lying in the coma in Camelot and Merlin confronting me here. I want you both really, you see. But I knew I could only kill one of you in person. Originally I had hoped it would be Merlin, he has some idea of the destiny he is intended for, and it would have been fun to watch his face when he realised that was about to be snuffed out. But now I've got you here, I'm starting to reconsider.'

She paused, looking Arthur up and down.

'You do so remind me of Uther. And you are much less of a threat to me than Merlin would have been. Perhaps it was better this way. Certainly killing you will be just as sweet.'

She was so slight, so very female, and yet Arthur somehow knew that she was far more dangerous than anything he had faced so far. As she started to back away, mumbling words under her breath, Arthur felt a slight stirring in the air, and desperate to play for time, he shouted,

'You failed though, haven't you?'

The girl stopped and looked at him.

'Excuse me?'

'You failed. Merlin isn't dead. He's still alive. You didn't kill him.'

She smiled.

'No, Arthur Pendragon, he isn't dead. Not yet anyway. Have you forgotten what you're here for? I didn't need to kill Merlin Emrys…you're going to do that for me.'

And it all hit Arthur in a rush. Of course she hadn't needed to kill Merlin outright; he would take care of that when he failed to return with the Morteus flower. Merlin only had a matter of hours to live as it was, there would be no time for anyone else to try to find the cure.

Arthur felt a cold hollow forming in his chest.

'Why?' he choked out, 'why are you doing this?'

The girl looked at him.

'Your father killed all those that I loved a long time ago. Now I am merely settling the score. And as for Merlin…he poses a threat that you can scarcely imagine. It will be better for all of my kind if he is cast out of the way before he has a chance to fulfil his destiny.'

All this talk of Merlin being dangerous and destiny were making Arthur's head swim, and so he pushed it all away, and tried to focus. He pointed his sword at the girl.

'You cannot harm me,' he said, 'step aside and let me pass and I will show you the same courtesy.'

The smile dropped off her face at these words, and her eyes glowed gold.

'**Do not patronise me, Arthur Pendragon**.' She hissed.

She began to chant under her breath, and the air began to swirl around them. Arthur was forced to clutch ever more tightly to the cave wall.

'Who **are **you?' he asked desperately.

She smiled at him brightly, all teeth and no warmth.

'Nimueh' she said, and pointed a finger at the rock beneath Arthur's feet. There was an immense cracking sound, and Arthur did not wait to see what happened next.

He jumped.

* * *

For a few minutes all Arthur was aware of was the tumultuous sound of falling rock. He kept his eyes closed, tried not to breathe too loudly, and clung onto to the ledge of rock.

Eventually the rockslide stopped, and the dust settled.

Coughing slightly, Arthur raised his head. He was standing on a ledge of approximate width fifteen centimetres, and when he looked behind him the shelf of rock he had previously been standing on was completely gone.

The girl, **Nimueh**, looked vaguely disappointed he hadn't outright fallen.

'So what's the plan now?' Arthur asked.

'Plan?' she said, scornfully, 'Well, my plan is to wait until you get too tired of holding onto that ledge and eventually have to let go of your own accord.'

'I'm going to climb up,' Arthur said.

She smiled at him.

'What, in the pitch black? Good luck with that, Arthur Pendragon.'

'Well, I certainly don't plan on letting go anytime soon.'

'Oh,' she looked disappointed, 'Well I'm happy to wait. But then again…that could get a little boring now couldn't it? Perhaps I should,' she waved a hand through the air, trailing sparks, 'speed things up so to speak?'

Arthur had never before fully appreciated the phrase 'staring death in the face'. Not even when fighting the snake/bird/Satan's minion.

All of a sudden, from somewhere far below him, he heard a faint scuttling sound.

'Can you hear that? What's making that noise?' he hissed.

The smile had faded from Nimueh's face and she now looked slightly worried. She coughed, and straightened her skirts.

'Well, this has been fun Arthur Pendragon. I'd stay to watch but our approaching friends are rarely in the mood to play, so I'll just…let them get on with it.'

'WAIT! No, what?' Arthur shouted, but before he could formulate anything more convincing she was gone into the darkness, in a swish of crimson skirts.

Fantastic, he thought. He peered nervously at the gaping chasm by his feet, but the darkness obscured anything that might be approaching, and all he could hear was a horrible scuttling that was getting steadily louder.

Arthur was only twenty one. He was **not **ready to die. More importantly, Merlin was not ready to die either, and he was depending on him.

Arthur evaluated his options. Down was obviously out. It was much too far for him to jump back to the passage way, and in any case, he needed the Morteus flower.

With a sinking feeling, Arthur turned his eyes to the sheer cliff above his head, knowing before his eyes had even gotten there, that to climb it in the pitch black would be near impossible.

But as his eyes scanned the darkness above him, he noticed a tiny spark of light, dancing about a foot above his head. As Arthur stared at it, the spark grew bigger and bigger, until it was about the size of Arthur's fist. It threw the next foot or so of wall into sharp relief, and suddenly Arthur could see a possible handhold, and then a foothold, and then another handhold.

Hope sparking in his stomach, he hauled himself up, hand over hand, and climbed steadily for about three metres or so. Far above him, he could see a tiny circle of moonlight, which signified the way back into the clearing.

The little ball of light climbed with him, hovering steadily just above his ear, and emitting not only light, but also, it seemed to Arthur, a tiny bit of hope.

After about five minutes of climbing, Arthur was about fifteen foot above where he had started, and was now level with the Morteus flower. The flower was growing in a crevice about two metres to the left of the path Arthur had taken, and as Arthur started to climb sideways towards it, he was horrible, painfully aware of just how loud the scuttling had become.

In fact, if he looked down, he could almost swear he could see large arachnid shapes moving towards him through the gloom.

Shaking this off, he kept moving, and reaching the flower, yanked it, roots and all, from the crack and shoved it into his pocket. The scuttling sound was now close enough to touch, and Arthur swung himself up, climbing hand over hand as fast as he could, hauling himself closer to the light and closer to escape with every upwards movement.

He was so nearly there when the first of the scuttling things caught up with him. Arthur was reaching for his next handhold, when he felt sharp pincers gripping at his leg, tearing the material of his leggings (Merlin would have to mend that later, he thought rather hysterically).

Arthur was jerked off balance, and his foot slipped, leaving him hanging only by his hands. But he'd come so far and he was **not **giving up now, and so he kicked out with both feet, connecting with something solid and hearing a crunch and he was released.

Grabbing desperately above him, Arthur caught hold of a ledge of rock, and swung himself up and out of the cave, landing with a thump on the grass outside, all the energy drained from him.

But he could still see dark shapes lingering at the edge of the cave, and he could sense that the faint moonlight would not hold them at bay for long.

Hauling himself to his feet, Arthur ran across the clearing, and wrenched Plato's reins free from the tree. He heaved himself into the saddle, brought his whip down across the horse's flank, and Plato, rendered uneasy by the atmosphere of the wood, needed no more encouragement to rear up and tear into a gallop, crashing through the trees, and out of the forest.

As the two of them raced through the darkness towards Camelot, leaving the laughter of a witch and the promise of death behind, all Arthur could feel was the Morteus flower burning a hole in his pocket, and the desperate hope that they would be there in time.

* * *

It took Arthur a mere three and a half hours to make the return journey. He had ridden like a man possessed, and a thoroughly spooked Plato had had no objections.

Clattering into Camelot's courtyard at about four in the morning, Arthur wasted no time in throwing his reins to a passing servant, and heading straight for Gaius' quarters.

He knocked on the worn wood door, and it was flung open instantly by the physician, a look of desperate hope on Gaius's face.

When he saw it was Arthur, everything about the old man seemed to sag with relief. He smiled broadly.

'Oh thank goodness, sire. Do you have the flower?'

From his pocket, Arthur produced the Morteus flower, it's petals a little crushed now, but still very much whole, and presented it to Gaius.

Gaius turned on his heel and made straight for his work bench, haphazardly throwing things into a clean pot and muttering.

Arthur made his way slowly over to the bed where Merlin lay. Guinevere was still there, slumped asleep with her head on her arms. She was holding Merlin's hand.

Suddenly Arthur felt very out of place. He had no business being here, intruding on Gwen and Gaius who both so clearly loved Merlin very much. Suddenly he felt that he couldn't be there when Merlin woke up.

He backed away to the door, and opened it.

The sound caused Gaius to turn, and he seemed surprised to see Arthur leaving.

'I have to see my father,' Arthur offered, by way of explanation.

'Of course, sire,' Gaius replied, his look piercing, 'you'll come back later tonight?'

Arthur nodded.

'Of course.'

* * *

Two hours later, Arthur found himself once more in the doorway of Gaius chambers.

Uther had been furious, absolutely livid, and Arthur did not want to think about the hours he'd just spent with his father ever again. He'd never felt like a more disappointing son.

But now, hovering in Gaius' doorway, he was about to find out if all of that disappointment was worth it.

Without knocking, he pushed the door open.

The scene before him made his heart feel as though it were trying to beat its way out of his chest. Gaius was over by the stove, merrily humming as he stirred a pot of some foul-smelling, but probably highly nutritious, broth. Morgana and Gwen were sat on either side of Merlin's bed and both of them were laughing.

And Merlin, Merlin himself, was sat up, propped against the pillows, white and worn but very very much alive.

When he heard the door, he looked up and met Arthur's eyes, breaking into an enormous grin that made him look like a madman, and said,

'Bet you thought you might actually get a decent servant for a while there.'

And as Arthur smiled back he knew that, though this might be the first time he'd risked his life for a servant, if it would keep Merlin smiling that ridiculous grin, it would certainly not be the last.


	16. TwentyOne Years, Two Months, Three Weeks

**A return to chapters of a more normal length :) Many thanks to Sir Gawain of Camelot, Xanthiae, WinterStorrm, Mr. Guppy, prettyredfox, peanutmeg, goodythreeshoes, Cynth19, ForzaDelDestino, and fey of the forest for the fantastic reviews!**

**I'm known for writing ridicuolously long build-ups to the start of relationships in my stories, but I think 30,000 + words is a record, even for me XD**

**In which there is A Foolproof Plan, A Woman on A Mission, and An Unexpected Kiss. **

* * *

When Arthur was twenty one years, two months and three weeks old, he had the terrible, or possibly brilliant, idea of asking Merlin to come up with a plan.

Since the dramatics of the Poisoned Goblet Incident (as Arthur had christened it in his head) life had resumed pretty much as normal. Merlin hadn't mentioned the extreme lengths Arthur had gone to save him, and Arthur hadn't mentioned the strange conversation with the girl who called herself Nimueh, or the glowing ball of light that had guided him to safety.

In fact, life at court had been progressing remarkably smoothly of late. Well, if you discounted the episode with Morgana and the haystack, and Arthur was only too happy never to think about that ever ever again. Things were going so well Arthur had found himself folding his clothes when he took them off, limiting his wine at dinner, and trying not to track mud through the foyer every time he hunted in an attempt not to jinx it.

Of course, he should have known that the peace and happiness could not last long, particularly not with people like Morgana and Merlin around to cause havoc, and sure enough, precisely two months and three weeks after his twenty first birthday, trouble arrived.

* * *

The trouble arrived in the form of a petite, blue-eyed, blonde-haired, giggling package of feminine charm, and so Arthur thought he could reasonably be excused for not having noticed that there even was a problem until far too late.

And if Merlin didn't agree with that particular opinion, well, that was just further proof of how stubborn and irritating the man was.

It was the height of summer, and as was custom for this time of year, Camelot had played host to the Sun Festival; a seven day celebration of…the sun. The festival's purpose was to gather together the villages before the harvest, to celebrate and give thanks for the summer thus far, and to pray for further good weather for harvest time.

The festival was one of Arthur's particular favourites. Tradition called for the nobility to spend at least three of the seven days helping the peasants to work the fields; and, inappropriately, Arthur rather enjoyed it. He liked the long hours, the hard work, the feel of the sun beating on his back, and the feel of bone deep weariness and true accomplishment at the end of the day.

He also liked the food, cooked out of doors on open fires, the free flowing supplies of alcohol, and the brightly coloured attire of everyone involved.

There were many traditions Arthur wasn't fond of; arranged marriages, slavery, four different sets of cutlery at meals; but the Sun Festival was definitely a triumph.

Normally, every year the royal families invited were exactly the same, but this year there were two changes to the guest list. Firstly, the invitations had had to be extended to include Mercia – Arthur got the impression Uther was not exactly happy about this but it would have been tactless in the extreme to exclude them – and secondly, the Prince of Norholt had recently acquired a ward.

Norholt was a small kingdom, one of the most isolated in the whole of Albion. It lay to the north of Camelot, and was defended by a wild sea to the east, and the treacherous Black Mountains to the west. The only connections it had to the rest of the country were a mountain pass leading to Elmet and a coastal road that wound through the wilderness for miles before eventually reaching the Kingdom of Deira.

As it was, Camelot had never had many dealings with them, and the only time Arthur could actually recall meeting Prince Greyhame and his subjects; who called themselves the Wyvern Knights, was once a year at the festival.

Arthur knew that his father did not particularly approve of the Kingdom of Norholt, for they had a reputation for doing things differently. Norholt was closed off from the rest of Albion; the two entrances to the kingdom were fiercely guarded, and they would engage in neither treaty nor trade with any other kingdom. They were also the only kingdom in Albion not to be ruled by a King. The ruler of Norholt was a man by the name of Prince Greyhame, and Arthur supposed by right he was a King but he had never claimed the title nor the privileges that went with it - nor had his father, or his grandfather before that.

Despite Uther's misgivings, Arthur had always found Prince Greyhame and the Wyvern Knights to be reasonable people; quiet but honourable. However, it had also never escaped his attention that the party from Norholt never brought women with them. Prince Greyhame was unmarried as of yet, and the entirety of his knights were the same.

So this year, when Arthur was waiting in the courtyard to greet the royal party, he was most surprised to see a slight figure on a white horse riding at the back of the group. The figure was too far away for him to tell at first, but as the party drew closer, his first impression was confirmed.

The figure was definitely feminine.

* * *

Her name, Arthur had later learnt, was the Lady Maria. She was the daughter of the brother of the cousin of the Duke of Cornwall, and also Prince Greyhame's second cousin's niece (Arthur had tried to explain this to Merlin, but his manservant's eyes had glazed over and he'd muttered something offensive about all the nobles being completely inbred).

Unfortunately, the brother of the cousin of the Duke of Cornwall had died in a riding accident, involving a pair of spurs in a horrible way, and the cousin of the Duke of Cornwall was far too important to be saddled by a young ward, and so Maria had been shipped off to Norholt to stay with Prince Greyhame.

Arthur had gathered all this information from Morgana (who'd had it relayed to her by Guinevere, who'd overheard the cooks discussing it in the kitchen) and by the time his cousin had finally stopped talking, Arthur had been feeling rather sorry for the Lady Maria.

It was this fact, and the Lady's appearance, that Arthur blamed for him getting in so far over his head.

Discounting the brief glimpse he'd gotten in the courtyard, the first time Arthur actually made Maria's acquaintance was on the first day of the festival.

On the first day of the festival, Arthur and his knights had to be the first out in the fields, setting a good example and all that, and so at eight o'clock in the morning, with the sun already high in the sky, Arthur had trooped out to the fields; Gawain, Galahad, Gareth, Richard, Agravaine, Kay, Alden, Pellinore, Edwin, Ulric and Grummore trailing behind him.

They had worked throughout the morning; the atmosphere cheered by a band of musicians and the constant chatter of the folk gathered at the edge of the fields. By the time the sun had reached its highest point in the sky, Arthur had decided they'd done enough for one morning, and, throwing down his hoe, he made his way to the edge of the field, and vaulted the fence into the village.

Making his way over to the nearest well, he splashed his face with water, and then, forgoing finesse for just one moment, dunked his entire head in. He came up shaking a combination of hair and water from his eyes.

'You look like a dog when you do that, sire,' came a voice from behind him, and Arthur turned to see Merlin, that all too familiar grin stretching from ear to ear.

Normally he would have sent Merlin to the stocks for behaviour like that, but he was in a good mood, so he just reached out and ruffled Merlin's hair, grinning broadly.

Merlin ducked, protesting vigorously, and somehow a flailing elbow caught Arthur in the side. Arthur made a sound that was in no way a yelp, and grabbed Merlin's shoulders, forcing him down into a headlock. They struggled for a few seconds, stumbling in circles, before Arthur found himself laughing too much to maintain his hold, and let Merlin go.

They had reversed positions during the struggle, and as Merlin flailed backwards, startled by his sudden release from captivity, he backed into the low edge of the well, and lost his balance. Arthur watched in utter delight as his manservant flailed backwards, a wind milling mass of long skinny limbs, before collapsing into the water.

Due to aforementioned long skinny limbs, Merlin somehow managed to hook an arm over the side of the well and as a result, only about half of him got soaked, but it was still more than enough for Arthur, and he had to sit down he was laughing so much.

And, as luck would have it, it was into this scene that the Lady Maria walked.

* * *

To give her her due, Maria managed to hide her shock fairly well. And, Arthur reasoned, it must have been a shock, to walk down to the village fields to watch some of the knights at work, and then come across the Crown Prince of Camelot and his manservant, in various states of saturation, laughing manically by the well.

Only the briefest expression of surprise graced her features before she smiled at Arthur, dropped neatly into a curtsey and said,

'Lady Maria Alyon, my Lord.'

Arthur ran a hand through his hair in embarrassment, forgetting his earlier head dunking and the hand he extended was slightly damp as a result. He awarded the lady bonus points for not wincing as she shook it.

'Arthur Pendragon.'

Maria smiled.

'A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my Prince.'

There was something in her tone as she said the word 'prince', a slightly predatory note perhaps; that made Arthur draw back slightly.

'Are you enjoying the festivities?' he asked, remembering his manners.

She nodded, beaming at him happily.

'Oh yes, it's so **nice **to finally be out of those mountains. Camelot is **so beautiful **this time of year.'

Arthur peered at her closely, trying to work out if she was being serious. Her smile seemed sincere – it never faltered at any rate.

He smiled back at her, slightly tentatively.

'Thank you. This has always been one of my favourite seasons. Perhaps you would like me to show you….'

Arthur didn't have time to finish his sentence before she was forcefully linking her arm through his.

'That would be **lovely, **my Lord. How** kind**.'

As Arthur found himself being dragged off towards the castle, he could have sworn he could hear Merlin cackling merrily behind him.

* * *

Many hours later, Arthur was leaning against the headboard of his bed, trying desperately not to feel the aches in his legs and shoulders and equally desperately not to think about how they would feel the following morning.

Darkness had fallen outside, and Arthur had no idea how late it really was, just that every other living soul left awake was nocturnal.

Despite his weariness, he found he couldn't sleep, and when Merlin had tried to leave his chambers earlier, Arthur had stopped him.

Merlin had protested, naturally.

'I know you're the Crown Prince and all, but I'm not sure even you have the power to order me not to **sleep**. Isn't that a basic human right or something?'

Arthur had glared at him.

'Consider it a punishment, Merlin.'

'Punishment for **what**?'

'For whatever you've done wrong.'

Merlin had had a think (Arthur didn't even want to know what had run through his head), before saying,

'I haven't **done **anything wrong, sire.'

'No,' Arthur had replied, glowering at him, 'but I'm sure you will at some stage.'

'So…this is a punishment for a crime I haven't even committed yet?'

'Exactly.'

Which was how, a couple of hours later, Merlin came to still be in Arthur's chambers.

He was lying on his back on the stone floor, sprawled so that the maximum amount of skin came into contact with the flagstones. Arthur had, very generously, offered him the chair, or even the end of the bed, but Merlin had declined. He claimed the floor was cold. And cold was good.

They had whiled away the time discussing a wide number of issues; from Morgana's latest dress, to the work of a field slave, to which knight they reckoned wouldn't make it down to the fields the next day.

There had been a peaceful silence for about ten minutes now, and Arthur was just wondering whether Merlin had fallen asleep, when his voice floated up from the vicinity of the floor.

'You seemed to hit it off with the Lady Maria.'

Arthur gave a non-committal grunt. Truth be told, despite her being very attractive, in a blond sort of way (Arthur was really starting to think he preferred dark hair), there was just something about her giggly manner and the way she'd gushed that made him very uncomfortable.

'Ug?' Merlin's head appeared above the foot of the bed, as he shoved himself up on his elbows, 'what's 'ug' supposed to mean?'

Arthur glared at him.

'It means I found her perfectly agreeable, but I have no burning desire to marry her.'

Merlin eyed him for a second, before saying,

'You don't like her do you?'

Arthur really did not like this habit Merlin had of always knowing when he was lying.

'I don't know her well enough to pass a judgement either way, Merlin.'

'Which means you don't like her.'

Arthur threw a pillow at his head. Merlin ducked, and the pillow hit a very valuable vase, knocking it to the floor, upon which it shattered into several hundred pieces.

Merlin grinned at him sheepishly.

'You threw it, not me.'

'You're still cleaning it up.'

There was a silence.

'She likes you, you know.'

'What?' Arthur snapped.

'Maria. She likes you. One of her serving girls told Gwen, who told me. You want to know her precise words?'

'No,' said Arthur.

'She said you were handsome, gentlemanly, and honourable. Apparently any woman should be honoured to be your wife. God knows why.'

'I wish,' Arthur muttered, 'more women were like you, Merlin.'

Merlin blinked at him.

'**Why**?

'Because you'd never want to marry me for my title.'

Merlin looked at him hard.

'No, probably not.'

'Then again, you'd make a fairly shoddy wife, even if we had married because you actually **liked **me.'

Merlin looked highly indignant.

'I'd make an excellent wife!'

'But you're such a terrible manservant.'

Merlin laughed, and the sound was surprisingly dirty.

'I have other talents, sire.'

Arthur gaped at him.

Merlin grinned, and tipped him an overly lavicious wink.

'Country boy remember?'

* * *

The next morning, armed with the new knowledge that Maria was, in all likelihoods, out for a marriage proposal, Arthur prepared himself.

He'd gone through this routine so many times before, with various different girls who'd set their sights on becoming the next Queen of Camelot, that he liked to think he had it down to an art.

He'd be perfectly courteous when he saw Maria, but would pay her no compliments, no special attention, and would avoid conversing with her directly. He would, under no circumstances, allow himself to end up alone with her.

As a plan, it was foolproof.

That evening, Arthur staggered through the door of his chambers, collapsed onto the bed, and wondered how a previously foolproof plan could have so many flaws in it.

He had tried to implement the plan in three separate scenarios, and somehow, each time, things had turned out wrong.

Firstly, as he gathered with his knights in the courtyard, ready to go down to another village, Maria had appeared via an archway. She had come straight across to him, smiling widely, and greeted him sweetly.

Arthur had responded with a cool 'Good morning my lady' and a detached smile, before turning immediately back to his knights.

In the past, this public snub had been enough to douse the fire of even the most ardent of suitors, but the insult had appeared to bounce straight off Maria. Instead of being offended, she had merely hovered behind Arthur, causing him to nearly trip over her each time he turned around.

Good manners meant that he was constantly apologising, and he had ended up paying her more attention than ever.

In a bid to try to regain control of the situation, Arthur had bowed to her, said 'I shall see you at lunchtime perhaps, Lady Maria?' and then hastily made for the path to the fields, his knights in tow.

The only woman Arthur knew who would actually dare to follow a man in that situation was Morgana, and sadly he thought his cousin might get along quite well with Maria.

Because as Arthur had neared the gate out of the courtyard, he had felt an arm slip through his from behind. He hadn't quite been able to believe her gall, and it was this surprise that he blamed for the fact that it was at least five minutes before he recovered himself enough to consider shaking her off, and by then it would just have been unspeakably rude.

So she had hung onto his arm the entire walk to the fields, chattering nineteen to the dozen about how lovely Camelot was and how she'd love to see more of it.

As a technique, it wasn't exactly subtle, but Arthur had to admire her for it.

* * *

His second failed attempt had occurred at lunch time. Arthur had been standing with Merlin at the edge of the village, watching a group of men and women cooking sausages on a fire, talking and laughing.

He had been scanning the crowd anxiously for some time, and had finally deemed himself safe from the woman, when she appeared, as if conjured from a magic lamp, out of a crowd of people.

'Arthur!' she'd beamed, 'what a surprise!'

'Bet it wasn't.' Merlin had muttered in Arthur's ear, and Arthur had had to change his snort of laughter swiftly into a cough.

'Would you care to join me for lunch?' Maria had said, and Arthur had instantly seen an opportunity to instigate a more successful use of the plan.

'Oh,' he'd lied, 'I'm afraid I promised Merlin I'd eat with him today. Apparently, we urgently need to discuss refurbishing my stables.' Arthur tried to make his voice sound suitably patronising, as though he could barely tolerate Merlin's mere presence, and thought he'd probably succeeded as Merlin stomped on his foot, and muttered,

'**Stable refurbishments? Really?**'

Maria's face had fallen for an instant, and Arthur had thought he was in the clear. But then she'd made a huge show of patting down her dress, before exclaiming,

'Oh my goodness, silly me! I seem to have come out without my purse! Or maybe I dropped it back by the field…I suppose I'll have to go **all** the way back up to the castle for my lunch.'

Feeling slightly guilty, Arthur had made appropriate noises of sympathy, but that would probably have been the end of the matter, had it not been for Merlin.

His manservant had looked at Arthur with a gleam in his blue eyes and then said,

'Now that I think about it Lady Maria, the **stable refurbishments **aren't nearly as important as making sure a Lady gets a decent lunch. The Prince is all yours.'

He favoured Maria with a blinding smile, turned a much more devious one on Arthur and then beat a hasty retreat.

Arthur, trapped, had made a hasty resolution to murder Merlin at the first possible opportunity, before reluctantly offering Maria his arm.

* * *

By his third attempt, Arthur had already had a sneaking suspicion his plan wasn't working, but he had never been one to give up, so he gave it one last go.

They had been at the dance after that evening's feast, and Maria had asked him to dance no less than six times. Each time Arthur had made a neat excuse, or pretended not to hear her, or become suddenly desperately needed on the other side of the hall, but then Maria decided to play dirty.

Arthur highly suspected she had actually waited purposely until he was talking to his father, before dropping a curtsey in front of him and saying,

'Prince Arthur, a dance?'

There was no way he could refuse her in front of Uther, and as they walked out onto the dance floor, Arthur was fairly certain she'd known it.

* * *

Thinking back on the events of the day, Arthur realised he needed a new plan. Preferably quickly.

And when Merlin burst through the doors of his chambers (without knocking) to prepare him for bed, Arthur suddenly knew what it was.

'Merlin!'

His manservant looked alarmed.

'Remember how I saved your life?'

'Uh…yes?' From the look in Merlin's eyes, he couldn't quite believe Arthur was going to be crass enough to bring it up in this way. Normally Arthur wouldn't be, but he was desperate.

'I need you to help me, and if you succeed, I will proceed to completely forget about that devilish little stunt you pulled earlier.'

Merlin blinked. He looked rather worried.

'What's wrong?'

'I don't want to marry Maria.' Arthur informed him.

'I know that.' Merlin said.

'But she wants to marry me.'

'I know that too.' Merlin's grin was pure evil.

Arthur glared at him.

'Look, I need to let her down before she gets any more ideas into her head, because there is no way my father would let me marry her, and no way I would even if he gave permission.'

'Can you not deal with that yourself?'

Arthur really did not like Merlin's tone.

'I **tried**,' he hissed, 'she's surprisingly…forceful.'

Merlin looked thoughtful.

'I thought there was probably a reason why the Duke of Cornwall's cousin didn't want her as his responsibility.'

Arthur paused.

'I thought he was too busy?'

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

'He's the **cousin of the Duke of Cornwall**, Arthur.'

'I don't **care**, Merlin. The point is, I need your help.'

Merlin looked puzzled.

'What am I supposed to do?'

'Look, you're an idiot. You're clumsy, you're tardy, occasionally very foolish…surely you can come up with a way to put her off?'

Merlin looked like he might hit him.

'And you, sire, are a **prat**. Just be yourself.'

'Apparently', Arthur snapped, 'my title blinds her to my extremely agreeable personality.'

Perhaps it was the mention of marrying for his title that did it, but whatever the reason, Merlin's features softened somewhat, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

'I'm not promising anything,' he warned.

Arthur could have hugged him.

* * *

The next day, Arthur spent the entire morning looking for signs of Maria's waning desire. He saw none.

And after lunch, during which she pushed a rolled up piece of parchment into his hand, it become blatantly obvious that whatever Merlin was doing, if anything at all, wasn't working.

Merlin was nowhere to be seen down by the fields, and Arthur suspected he was avoiding him. So, temper swiftly rising, he made his way back up to the castle, upon which he checked Gaius's quarters, his own quarters, and the kitchens for any sign of Merlin and his large ears.

He found none.

He leant against a wall and fumed for a few minutes, before an idea struck. Making his way to the stables, he hunted out the dark haired stable lad that had helped him before.

'Marcus!' he called.

The boy visibly jumped, and stared at Arthur in shock, possibly because the Prince knew his name, or possibly because the Prince was talking to him at all.

'Yes, sire?'

'Have you seen Merlin?'

'No, sire.' Marcus' voice shook a little, and Arthur raised an eyebrow.

'I'll rephrase that. Have you seen Merlin?'

Marcus sighed.

'He's hiding in the gardens, sire, by the pavilion.'

Arthur smiled at him.

'Thank you, Marcus. Take the rest of the day off.'

Five minutes later, Arthur was striding towards the pavilion. He could see Merlin, even from this distance; the lanky form of his manservant hunched on the pavilion steps.

Arthur kept walking, until he was standing right in front of Merlin's bent head.

'Merlin, fancy seeing you here.'

Merlin looked up.

'I **paid **Marcus to keep quiet.'

Arthur rolled his eyes.

'You still aren't the prince, Merlin.'

Merlin sighed, and levered himself to his feet.

'Something you wanted, sire?'

'I'm waiting,' said Arthur, 'to hear your plan.'

'About that,' Merlin sounded shifty, 'is it really necessary? Surely Maria will just back off after a few days?'

Arthur handed him the piece of parchment Maria had given him earlier.

'She gave me this at lunch time,' he said.

He watched Merlin's face closely as his manservant read, and saw him wince slightly.

'Okay,' Merlin said, handing the scroll back to him, 'I do sort of take your point.'

'**Sort of?**' Arthur hissed, 'she's writing me **love poetry**.'

Merlin sighed.

'And I really hope any reference to your sword was intended purely metaphorically.'

Arthur shuddered.

'Merlin…' he whined, doing his best to look beseeching.

The other man huffed a sigh.

'Okay, fine,' he snapped. Arthur got the feeling that he had been about to say something else, but as he watched, Merlin's expression changed from irritated to alarmed.

'Um, Arthur? Not to alarm you or anything, but I think the Lady Maria has tracked you down.'

'**What**?' Arthur hissed, spinning on his heel.

Unfortunately Merlin was right, because between the trees to the left, moving down towards the turning to the pavilion was the figure of Maria. All she had to do was turn the corner and she'd see them.

Arthur turned back to Merlin, and opened his mouth with the intention of sending Merlin to the stocks (so they'd both be suffering) when something stopped him quite abruptly.

That something was Merlin kissing him.

Arthur was so shocked, he froze completely, Merlin's mouth warm over his. He thanked God Merlin's lips remained closed, else he might have passed out completely.

Merlin drew back, licking his lips slightly, which did something funny to Arthur's stomach, before whispering,

'Just go with it,' and resealing his mouth over Arthur's.

Merlin's lips were warm against his own, and surprisingly soft, and Arthur considered it would just be rude not to kiss back.

So he did, and after a second, when he felt Merlin's tongue probing against his lips, he opened his mouth without thinking. And that was when he officially lost control of the situation.

Because Merlin just tasted so goddamned **good**, like wood smoke and honey and a tiny hint of something that was purely him. And he hadn't been lying when he said that he had other talents because his tongue was doing sinful things to the inside of Arthur's mouth, and Arthur was finding it increasingly hard to breath.

At some point Arthur was vaguely aware of hearing a squeak of horrified surprise behind them, and then the sound of swiftly retreating footsteps, but he was really too busy threading his fingers through Merlin's hair to actually notice.

He'd been watching Merlin run fingers through his stupid dark hair for months now, and Arthur took ample opportunity to rumple his own fingers through the soft strands, messing it up beyond repair.

Merlin didn't seem to mind though, because he only kissed Arthur harder, bringing long fingers up to cup his face.

After a second, Merlin pulled back, nipping lightly at Arthur's lower lip, and Arthur tried, and failed, to stop a tiny moan of disappointment escaping.

Merlin seemed to enjoy this, because he grinned wickedly, and that was oh so much more effective this close up, and kissed his way along Arthur's jaw, hot and wet, stubble rubbing against Arthur's own creating a delightful friction.

A shiver ran through Arthur, and he tightened his grip on Merlin's hips, pulling the other boy closer.

Merlin kissed his way up to Arthur's ear, nipped lightly at his ear lobe and then pulled away, whispering,

'I think she's gone now.'

This barely registered with Arthur over the noise of the blood pounding in his ears, and he probably would have kissed Merlin again, just to be sure, had it not been for the voice that spoke from behind them.

'You think who's gone now?'

Arthur felt Merlin freeze in front of him, every muscle going stiff. He was in much the same state.

Please god, please god, don't tell him that was Gaius.


End file.
